


The Fragrance the Violet Sheds

by Madophelia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Not Season/Series 04 Compliant, Parenthood, Parentlock, Post Season 3, compliant up to season 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-23 05:55:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2536667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madophelia/pseuds/Madophelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forgiveness Is the Fragrance the Violet Sheds on the Heel That Has Crushed It - Unknown</p><p>Sherlock Holmes knows he has a lot to be forgiven for. Especially his part in the whole John's-wife-died-and-now-he's-stuck-with-the-baby thing. But the thing is, John Watson has been handing out forgiveness all over the place and has just about run out. It takes one special lady to show them that sometimes forgiveness isn't as difficult as they might think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That's What You Get

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _That's what you get when you let your heart win_  
>  That's what you get - Paramore

Sherlock Holmes has very rarely been unprepared for anything in his life. Observant as he is, few things have ever taken him by surprise. The hot rush of overdose had happened once, but considering that had occurred under more than a little intoxication, he counts it as anomaly to usual circumstances. 

This, however, this had pulled the rug out from under him so sharply that his head convulses with almost painful waves of indecision. 

The blank look on John's face is the worst. He'd stared into those blue eyes so full of despair so many times, been the cause of if more than that and yet this, this was something he had never seen. The doctor's face is entirely void of emotion. Sherlock knows his comprehension of social cues is often lacking, and that he isn't once for noticing micro-expressions or any other physical indicators of emotion, but John isn't giving anything away. 

“John?” he says, reaching out to jostle his shoulder, barely pressing at the warmth of John's frame before dropping his hand, unable to offer more. 

“Sherlock,” a voice answers from behind him. 

“You are not needed here,” Sherlock spits, spinning on his heels, coat flaring so that it whips at John's thigh. He still doesn't move. 

“On the contrary,” Mycroft says, “My presence here is the only thing stopping you from being ejected.” 

“He's the--” Sherlock clicks his mouth shut before speaking quietly through gritted teeth. “He has a right to be here.” 

Mycroft nods, inspecting the tip of his umbrella as he does in times of assumed superiority. “You, on the other hand...” 

“I...” A lack of words had never been his style either, something about this situation appeared to be bringing out all sorts of behaviours and weaknesses he hadn't known he had. 

Instead of finding the answer, Sherlock whirls back around, approaching John with half a step that feels like a movement towards more hopelessness. 

“John.” he repeats. 

“It's done Sherlock.” John whispers without looking at him. “Just like you said.” 

“Not like this,” Sherlock insists, “I didn't think it would be like this.” 

It is a testament to exactly how much it hadn't been expected that Mycroft does not contradict him. 

“It's better though, isn't it?” John asks, turning jaggedly to face Sherlock, his face grey and drooped into something Sherlock can't read. “Neater.” 

“None of us wanted--”

“No,” John sighs, which is almost enough to indicate something to Sherlock, but he doesn't know what. “I know.”

“She was still your wife, John.” 

“Was she?” John's head tips at an angle, eyes narrowing slightly, that small non-smile playing at his lips. “The woman I married doesn't exist. It was a phantom.” 

“She loved you.” Sherlock insists, “I know she did.” 

John huffs a laugh. It seems odd and Sherlock isn't sure how that fits in to what is going on, why a laugh of all things had escaped John's otherwise stoic silence.

“You'll forgive me if I don't put much stock in your deductions when it comes to her. Being that you missed it all in the first place.”

“I didn't” Sherlock shrugs, “I never miss anything.” 

“So you knew she was a deadly assassin that was lying to me every single day?” 

“I knew she was a liar.” Sherlock offers, “I didn't have enough data to theorise as to what, I suspected you wouldn't want me getting involved.” 

“Getting involved? Sherlock, you planned my wedding!” 

“I was being helpful.” 

John sucks in a breath, a reversal of the sigh he'd let out before, as though dragging anything he'd let out back in. 

“You said I was your best friend.” Sherlock whispers, trying to clarify his position on the matter. 

“You are.”

Sherlock tries to keep his eyes locked with John's but finds the effort of it pulls at something inside his chest so he looks away. 

“What now?” John said, turning to Mycroft. 

Mycroft clears his throat, a tell only privy to Sherlock that what he is about to say could be deemed socially inadequate or contrary. 

“That is up to you Doctor Watson.” 

The title is a deflection, Mycroft distancing himself from John, from his anguish. Mycroft never liked to get his hands dirty, it wasn't just leg work he was adverse to, pretty much anything that diverted from his usual benign brand of political slaughter tended to bring the older Holmes out in metaphorical hives. Sherlock had been the same once, before John, before losing him. 

“In what way?” John asks, left hand clenching and unclenching. That response Sherlock can read perfectly. 

“There are people on standby to take the situation out of your hands, if you decide that is what you would prefer.” 

John's eyes widen briefly. “Mycroft.” 

“Noted.” 

“I don't... Even if she's not... I couldn't...” 

“ _Noted_ , Doctor Watson.” 

“Good.” 

Mycroft dismisses himself, placing his ever-present mobile to his ear and speaking quietly into it. 

“Do you think I'm an idiot?” 

John is honestly asking his opinion on the matter and Sherlock finally manages to open his mouth to reply but there are no words in in there to put forth. He is saved the embarrassment of trying to find them when John speaks again in a rush.

“Yes, yes. I know, everyone is an idiot compared to you. I can't explain it Sherlock, I just can't leave it. Her.” 

Sherlock's phone vibrates in his pocket. It takes him a second before he can pull it out from inside his jacket, fingers fumbling, though there is no reason for him to be so affected. 

_The DNA is a match. Hope you catch the bad guy. Molly. x_

It can wait. Shoving it roughly back into his pocket, Sherlock watches as the door they have all be waiting on swings open. 

“Mr Watson?” a young male nurse calls. 

“That's me.” John turns away from him and back to the door, his eyes track the small writhing bundle in the nurse's arms as he steps closer, almost all the way into his space. 

“She gave us quite a scare there,” the nurse says. 

Sherlock scans him quietly. Gay, in a long-term relationship though his boyfriend is cheating on him. Casual smoker, though not for some time. Right handed. Golfer on the weekends. Owns a small dog and a hamster... his thoughts are cut off as John reaches out for the squirming blankets. 

Sherlock feels his arm raise of it's own accord but manages to maintain some control. He makes an effort at deduction once more but can only come up with the fact that the nurse wasn't in the room when the baby was born, and other than excusing his cheery behaviour, that titbit doesn't contribute towards helping Sherlock navigate this situation at all. 

John's face is no longer still. It moves between elation and relief, a wide smiling cracking through his lips that he instantly feels guilty for. 

“You have a right to be happy John.” 

“Do I?” John says, “After everything? I'm not so sure.” 

“It was necessary.” 

“So you kept saying,” John says, obviously straining to keep his voice low, “but it was just lies on top of lies, I'm not even sure what the truth is any more.” 

“The truth?” Sherlock says, raising a sceptical eyebrow. “You read the memory stick.” 

John sighs, holding out a finger as a small hand wraps around it, a strong grip despite it's tiny appearance. John looks down and Sherlock finally casts a glance towards the baby in his arms. 

“That wasn't what I meant.” John is saying, but Sherlock's eyes cannot leave the sight in front of him. 

The baby is tiny, pink, no discernible data that grants him anything by way of deduction. Brand new. That is his only thought, untouched by anything that has gone before, this baby is completely helpless and newly-made.

She is part of John, crafted from him. She has a dusting of hair on her head the same shade as John's, a muted blonde. Sherlock knows just enough to know that this is outside of normal. Dark brown or bright blonde would be usual for a newborn yet there it is, defying logical and statistics and rational thinking. This baby was forged in a lie but she is the most real and truthful thing in this room. 

“The truth is that Mary was your wife and she died, but she loved you, and this is your daughter. Everything else is unimportant. You should delete it.” 

“If only it were that simple for us mere mortals.” John smiles anyway, “Yes.” he whispers, “I suppose that is all that matters.” 

The nurse coughs nervously. Sherlock looks up and sees that his deduction about the nurse not being present when the baby was born has been proven. He looks mortified at his previous cheerfulness, knowing now the circumstances of the birth. 

“I'm sorry I--” 

“Wasn't aware of the situation.” Sherlock says striding over to him in a commanding way that makes him fall into step. “No bother. We'll be quite fine from here. Thank you.” 

“The baby needs to be discharged,” the nurse splutters, “there are forms and the doctor wants to give Mr Watson some more information about her care and--” 

“And someone will be along in a minute to take care of all of that,” Sherlock says as Mycroft walks back into the room, devoid of phone, “but a few moments alone wouldn't hurt, would they?” 

“Err--” 

“Great.” Sherlock says, a large fake smile on his face present just until the moment the door shuts on the stammering nurse. He drops it immediately, relieved at not having to hold it for too long. “You'll send someone to sort all of that.” Sherlock says in Mycroft's direction, more of a statement than a question. 

Mycroft grimaces at the demand but nods nonetheless. “And what will you be doing?” 

“Taking John home, obviously.” 

“John and the baby?” Mycroft asks, raising a critical eyebrow.

“Well, yes.”

John glances up from his cooing and moves his eyes between the two of them. “Sherlock,we have nothing at the flat, I should probably just go back to Mary's... to my old house. For a bit. I know she's got a nursery there and everything.”

Sherlock dips his eyes backwards and forwards across John's face, reading his expression. It is blatant enough that even with his mediocre social awareness he understand the intention. 

“You're not coming back at all,” Sherlock announces, “This is a permanent arrangement.” 

John raises a thumb and forefinger to pinch at the bridge of his nose, scrubbing the flat of his hand down his face after he realises that isn't enough to express his annoyance. 

“You didn't think me moving back to Baker Street the last few weeks was a 'permanent arrangement' did you?”

He's not as incredulous as he sounds, but it's a near thing and Sherlock doesn’t know how to respond. He knows it's been coming of course, resentment never sits well on John, ruffles around his soldierly manners and doctor's concern too awkwardly. 

“Sherlock, I have been living an entire fucking lie for the last four months. Until _you_ finally found what you were looking for. It's been a relief to be there while you tied up the loose ends but with everything that has happened, now that it's finally over... It's time to stop now.” 

“So you move out, live in Mary's flat by yourself and then what?” 

“Get my own life back!” 

The baby in John's arm stirs at the raised voices, gurgling and whining her disapproval in high-pitched wails

“Hey sweetheart I'm sorry.” John soothes, rocking her gently backwards and forwards, “I'm sorry.” 

The second one could almost be directed at Sherlock but he's sure he imagined it. 

Sherlock glances over as Mycroft strolls from the room and through the double doors, off to arrange things no doubt. Even Mycroft has some residual guilt about using the memory of Moriarty to flush Mary out and finally put an end to the entire network. Especially now things have turned out the way they have.

“To be honest,” John whispers once the baby has settled again, “I am not entirely sure what 'my life' is. I left the army and was lost, then you just kind of swooped in and swept me along with you. Then you... you left and I was lost again. Then, yes, then I was swept along by Mary. But then you come back and my whole life is turned upside down in more messed up ways than I could ever imagine and then, to top it all off, _she_ left.” John sighs, “Things are different now. I'll have to be swept along by this little one for a bit.” There is a half smile on John's mouth. A real one, not effect rage has upon the stretch of his lips. “You get that, yeah?” 

Sherlock doesn't. He nods anyway. He's not entirely sure but he thinks perhaps telling John that he doesn't get it at all would be crossing that line into a 'bit not good' again. 

“You don't actually have to be swept along by anyone,” Sherlock points out. 

There is a flex of silence that hangs over them, punctuated by the soft breathing from the tiny body relaxed against the strong curve of John's elbow. She seems to be asleep. Sherlock wonders what it would be like to lay his own head there and drift off, but quickly shakes that idea off as idiotic and sentimental.

“You're angry with me.” Sherlock notes.

“I don't want to be. I know it's not your fault.” 

“I asked you to pretend all that time. At Christmas, I asked you to reconcile with her and spend those few months acting like everything was fine.” 

“You did,” John agrees, “And I am more resentful of that than I should be. I agreed to do it.” 

“But I asked in the first place.” 

“Yes.” 

Sherlock nods once, short and curt, barely a movement at all, rather a finale. “Look after yourself, John.” Then as an afterthought he isn't even sure why he adds, “And her.” 

“I will. I guess, with Mycroft...” he glances over his shoulder, “doing whatever, I'm all set. I should go home and get her settled.” 

_Home._ It is already home to him. Sherlock feels a drag on his inhale, a stutter or a pain at the base of his lungs.

He looks around the room aimlessly, as if checking he has everything he needs. Finally, deciding he has nothing to take with him but the calm and precious life swaddled in his arms, he turns back to Sherlock. “I'll see you soon.” 

Sherlock puts on a smile but doesn't reply, anything he says will just be a lie. Something pulls in his chest again, twinging in the centre of his ribcage, sinking like a heavy weight in his stomach. It crosses Sherlock's mind to wander down the hall and request an EKG to check whether there is something physically wrong with him, but somehow he feels it wouldn't matter even if there was. 

John seems to wait for him to say something but at the soft sound of his daughter waking his attention is quickly diverted. Sherlock does not wait for John to look up and walk past him, simply leaves of his own accord before the pull in his chest works it way out of his mouth. 

Mycroft is leaning on his umbrella in the open doorway of a sleek black car when Sherlock hits the curb. 

“Leaving so soon, brother dear?” 

“Piss off Mycroft.” 

“So defensive Sherlock, but then I suppose you have a lot to defend these days.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and tries to sidestep out of the way, flicking his coat collar up to block out his peripheral vision. It doesn't work, it never has and he has no idea why he keeps doing it. Something about the exaggerated roll of the eyes John gives every time he does perhaps, followed by a soft grin Sherlock doesn't even think he knows he's doing... No, no no.... stop it.

“It's not just the child, you realise. This was bound to happen eventually,” Mycroft continues, falling in to step beside him as he tries to escape, “Getting involved always ends badly. You should never let your heart rule your head.” 

“Very clever,” Sherlock grunts, “Not a direct quote, you'll notice, you are paraphrasing.” 

“Too bad you haven't made an inanimate object your heart, isn't it. Far easier to keep something that doesn't have the common sense to want to leave you.” 

Sherlock stops and rounds on his brother, that extra inch of height difference insignificant as he looms in Mycroft's personal space. 

“You would do well to stay out of it,” he warns. 

“And you would do well to remember that John Watson made his choice when he married Mary Morstan instead of falling in to your bed the moment you returned.” 

The fact that Mycroft's calm demeanour is masking actual fear that Sherlock may strike him does not comfort him in the slightest. Deciding it would be worth more trouble to put up with the concerned phone calls from his mother should he actually lay a hand on the Holmes heir, Sherlock steps back to the edge of the pavement. He heaves a pointed glance that asks Mycroft to have the same mercy in not following him and stalks off in hunt of a cab. 

Mycroft didn't have a clue what he was talking about, Sherlock assures himself. He had never had any intention of keeping John away from Mary, he had only wanted what was best for him. He'd never even considered John in any way but as a friend, let alone wanting him anywhere near his _bed_. Mycroft was delusional. They are friends, best friends John had said. 

But as Sherlock climbs into the back seat of a taxi and has to remind himself to close the door before settling in the seat because there is no one getting in behind him to do it, he wonders if he's really telling himself the whole truth.


	2. In Repair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _I'm not together but I'm getting there_  
>  In Repair - John Mayer

John collected the small bag of his things the next day. He has the child in a carry seat that would appear to attach to a wheel frame. Sherlock heard it come through the door, a large thing John is not yet used to manoeuvring. He'd struggled detaching the seat from the base before carrying it up the stairs. Sherlock heard all of that but didn't move from his spot on the couch. 

“Hey,” John says. It's stilted, dragging on the atmosphere in the room. 

“Hello.” Sherlock struggles to enunciate correctly and is thankful when his voice doesn't crack from disuse. It would wouldn't do to let John know that he has been laying on this couch since he got back from the hospital, hasn't spoken to anyone since Mycroft. 

“Me and Violet just came to get some things.” 

“That's what you're going with?” Sherlock asks, because he knows he's supposed to. 

“Yes.” John says, placing the seat down on the coffee table so that the tiny pink face is staring up at Sherlock. “It's a Watson family name so I figured I couldn't go wrong.” 

“I also have an Aunt called Violet.” Sherlock informs him, swinging up to a seated position. He doesn't know why, the information isn't relevant and John has no reason to be interested. Still, the doctor's eyes brows raise happily and he smiles a little.

“You mind watching her while I go up? If I have to drag that thing up another flight of stairs I'll pull something.” 

“I...Um...”

“She's fine.” John insists, running a finger down the soft skin of her cheek soothingly, “She's been fed and changed before we came out. She had a nap on the way over so the most that could go wrong is that she'll need a little cuddle.” 

Sherlock is having trouble working his mouth around the words so he settles for nodding. 

“Great.” 

John disappears up the stairs and Sherlock peers into the baby's chair, surprised to see Violet's eyes open and alert. 

“I warn you,” he says illogically, as she cannot yet understand him, “I am not used to babies.”

The intellectual theory behind childcare is all there, parenthood and parental duties are often the strain on a marriage that causes a murder and Sherlock isn't about to have ignorance of an entire data set, so in theory he knows exactly how to do this. In practice she is so small and fragile that he feels sure his large awkward hands may hurt her. 

She blinks at his words. Face seeming to stretch into a smile for half a moment before scrunching up tightly into the warning signs of a full on tantrum. Sherlock reaches out instinctively, unbuckling the straps holding her safely into the chair and picking her up. He settles her against him, sinking into the back of the couch so that she is cradled in his arms but supported on the soft jersey of his t-shirt. His body heat should be soothing and a firm swaddling motion with his arms should replicate pre-natal conditions and therefore calm her. She makes a few disgruntled noises at being moved but then snuffles into silence against his chest. 

Objectively, this is not a situation in which Sherlock ever thought he would find himself. Subjectively, the tiny weight resting against him is somewhat pleasant. The soft downy hair of her head smells fragrant and the sensation of her back rising and falling under his hand with her steady breathing is wondrous. Tiny life moving and living in such close proximity to him, and she is comforted by it, lulled into restfulness by his presence. Sherlock doesn't think anyone has ever been soothed by his being near before. 

The rest of the time John is upstairs is uneventful. By the time John comes back down Sherlock is still staring into the resting face of John's daughter and contemplating how it is that she should look so much like his friend. Babies shouldn't really look like anyone yet, there is not enough definition in their faces to be distinctive and eye colour is subject to change over time. And yet, against all odds, she does look like John. 

There is the softer curve of Mary's mouth to be sure, but her nose is John's and her eyes... they are a deeper blue than perhaps they should be. Not quite the depth of John's yet but certainly heading in that direction. Sherlock hopes that she keeps them, has that sweet innocent face wrapped around the blue steel of John's eyes forever. She will be effervescent, how could she not, and he has a strong urge to protect her from the dangers that may bring. 

“Thanks for that Sherlock I'm still getting used to this parenting thing--” John appears at the door way, bag in hand and stops abruptly. 

“What?” Sherlock asks, shifting from his comfortable position so that Violet lets out a grumble of protest too, gripping her softly, he returns her to the chair and straps her in. 

“Nothing,” John mumbles, “You looked comfortable.” 

“We were.” Sherlock huffs, “But I suppose you'll be going so no use in staying that way.” 

“Yes,” John says reaching out to pick the chair up again with his left hand, clearly trying to decided which of his charges weighs the heaviest in case he needs to rearrange it to stop it pulling on his bad shoulder. 

The bag is heavier than the baby, Sherlock surmises, so her on the left makes sense. He could offer to carry one or both of the things for John but knows that would be met with that hard edged look of stubborn pride at the suggestion.

“Well, we're off.” John nods, turning to go back down the stairs. “Pop by in the week if you want.” 

“I wouldn't want to intrude,” Sherlock says, rising to his feet. He can't linger with the memory of the tiny girl pressed against him. He has to move, perhaps Lestrade will have a case. Yes, he can go find him, the girl in dispatch is always such a sucker for Sherlock's winning smile. 

“Sherlock,” John's voice is warm but full to the brim with actual warning, “I know we have some stuff to deal with, and I'm trying to get over it all. I appreciate you feeling like you need to give me space but we are still friends, you can still come and hang out.” 

“We have never 'hung out' John.” Sherlock swipes his tea from the coffee table and takes a swig before he realises that it went cold a long time ago. 

“No,” John agrees, “I suppose not. Still, pop over any time. If you, you know, want to talk.” 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. 

“Or well, anything. I don't think I'll be sprinting off on cases any time soon.” 

“Not if your sleep pattern is anything like last night. Tell me, was it three or four hours you managed to get in the end?” 

“Three and a half,” John confirms, “Jesus, do I look that bad?” 

“Not to worry,” Sherlock says stepping over the table with an air of unaffected laziness, “No one but I could ever tell.” 

With a final chuckle and a quick farewell, John is gone and Sherlock is once again alone in the flat. It feels odd when John is not here. It is not the temporary absence of his attendance at a medical conference, or the quick run to the shops Sherlock had long ago given up acknowledging as absence at all and continued talking through. This is permanent and the air in the room feels all the more void of heat for it. 

He showers and dresses quickly, thankful for his efficient use of fashion choices than require almost no thought. Shrugging in to his coat like armour he is on the phone to dispatch and discovering Lestrade's location before he is even out of the door. 

\-----

The Detective Inspector is never surprised when Sherlock Holmes arrives unannounced on to his crime scenes. After all, that is exactly how they had met in the first place. He is, however, mildly affected to see that John Watson is not with him. 

“On your own today?” he asks as Sherlock crouches down beside the body in the bedroom. 

“It would appear so. Did you know this woman was having an affair?” 

Lestrade sighs, always straight to business with Sherlock. John is the one he can actually chat to. “Yes,” he confirms, “Pretty open and shut really, we have the husband in custody already. I can handle things without your assistance you know, that is why I didn't call you in.” 

“Wrong.” Sherlock stands, looking almost annoyed. 

“Excuse me?” 

“The lover did it.”

“No,” Lestrade insists, “He confessed. The husband confessed. Discovered her affair and stoved her head in with a paperweight.” 

“I'm sure he thinks he did it,” Sherlock says, “The bump on the head he gave her would have rendered her unconscious, surely, but that wasn't what killed her.”

Lestrade crosses his arms, “What the hell are you talking about.” 

Sherlock sighed, “She's been poisoned. Way before being hit on the head. She was probably already affected by the time the husband got home which is why she didn't clear up from her afternoon romp with the personal trainer she's having her affair with. She'd probably been getting too serious, threatening to leave her husband to be with the lover full time, not something he could allow to happen seeing as he's been slowly stealing from her. Much easier to have her die from poisoning and have the husband take the rap. I'm sure the post mortem would have revealed all of this to you and you'd discover that the poison used would have had to have been administered long before the husband came home and then potentially have made the leap yourself but allow me to save you the time.” 

“Yes alright,” Lestrade says with his own sigh, “I've stopped second guessing you when it comes to these things. I'll get the post mortem to confirm it. Any idea where we can find this personal trainer?” 

“At her gym, naturally.” 

Lestrade raised his eyebrows, “That was my first thought which, as is so often the case, is usually the wrong one.” 

“This case is barely worth my time,” Sherlock said, “you should have had it solved in a few days without me.”

“So what brings you down here?” Lestrade asks as they leave the room and he motions for the clean up crew to go ahead. 

“Bored.” 

“Don't you usually experiment on John or shoot things when you're bored? Not that I'm condoning that behaviour you realise” 

“John is no longer residing at Baker Street.” Sherlock grunts as he removed his latex gloves and drops them in the waste bin by the door. 

“What?” Lestrade says, “Don't tell me he's gone back to Mary after all of that rot.” 

Sherlock shakes his head, squinting in the sunlight as they exit the front door. “Mary died giving birth to John's daughter a few days ago.” 

“Christ, is John okay?” 

“We weren't notified until yesterday, it seems Mary was quite eager to keep him away while she gave birth and then Violet's lungs weren't as developed as they could have been. She spent a few days in the NICU before they found John and called him. He wasn't listed as her next of kin. She probably planned to escape as soon as the baby was born.” 

“I thought she was supposed to be in custody?” 

“My brother had her under constant surveillance, her flight attempt would never have been successful. She cut a deal for the final information concerning Moriarty's network in exchange for the birth taking place privately. Even Mycroft wasn't notified it had happened until just before John was.” 

“That,” Lestrade whistles, “sounds incredibly fucked up.” 

“Yes.” Sherlock says bluntly, “Which is why John has reacted in his customary way and escaped the situation. He and Violet are living in his old house.”

Lestrade nods as they duck under the police tape and head to his car, “And how are you holding up?” 

“Me?” Sherlock frowns. 

“John left, he's started this whole new life with the baby, must be hard to see where you fit in.” 

Sherlock doesn't reply. 

“It's a big change, Sherlock. Maybe it's time to start finding something else outside of John to occupy your time.” 

“My life does not revolved around John Watson. I have plenty of things to concern myself with without his annoying presence. It will be refreshing to go back to living my life free of his constant need to chronicle my every move in his damn blog.” 

Lestrade smiles and ducks into the driver's seat. “Keep telling yourself that mate. But John is a father now, and other than being Uncle Sherlock, you're going to have to find a new role to play in his life. The weird co-dependency thing isn't going to work when he's caring for a child.” 

“Why does everyone seem to think that I have some unhealthy attachment to John Watson?” Sherlock asks, flinging his hands in a suitably dramatic fashion towards the sky. “I am fine, he is fine, we are friends, nothing more.” 

“Whoa,” Lestrade says, pausing as he turns the key in the ignition, “I never said you were anything other than friends. I just meant that you won't be able to rely on him the way you used to. That's all.”

Sherlock purses his lips and remains silent, repressing his outburst back within himself. 

“Do you... I mean has John ever...” 

“No.” Sherlock says through gritted teeth. 

“Okay, okay. I get it. Friends. Just don't take it personally if you don't see him for a while, John is first-time-parent hell right now and he's doing it alone.” 

“That isn't a pleasant experience?” Sherlock asks, genuinely. 

“God,” Lestrade stares out of the wind-shield as though remembering, “It's fantastic, sure. Having a kid is nothing like anything else. But the sleepless nights, the crying, the constant need for attention? You sort of disappear for a bit, all you are is Daddy. Thank god I had Karen at the time.” 

Sherlock nods curtly, processing all of that information away for later use. 

“Anyway, all I'm saying is John isn't going to be around much. You should probably get used to it.” He starts the car, “I'll get back to you with the post-mortem report. We can confirm that theory of yours.” 

“Don't bother,” Sherlock waves a dismissive hand, “I know I'm right. Just contact me if anything else comes to light. Or the next time you have a case worth my time.” 

“Yeah,” Lestrade says, moving the car slightly away from the curb so Sherlock ducks back onto the pavement out of the way. “Seeya then.” 

Enough now, Sherlock thinks. John is gone, he isn't coming back and the way Lestrade puts it, it seems like he has enough on his plate that he won't even be thinking about fixing whatever it is they need to fix to sort out their friendship any time soon. Sherlock has done alone before, it suits him. Before John he'd never known anything but being alone. It was time to be that man again, to stop relying on anyone else for a sense of well being. Sherlock turned and headed down town.


	3. Goodnight & Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _It's always say goodnight and go_  
>  Goodnight & Go - Imogen Heap

Chemistry requires precision. Exact measurements, extreme focus, absolute attention. To Sherlock Holmes, sacrificing an entire night's worth of sleep to the study of cultures and various other experiments is no sacrifice at all. Which is why, when he hears the door to his flat open at two in morning, he is hunched over a Petri dish instead of curled up in bed. 

There is the soft shuffle of well-known feet in an expected tread pattern, a slight favouring of the left leg that Sherlock knows means anguish and the loud wailing cry of a one month old baby girl. Sherlock has heard none of these sounds in a month, and it shocks him how much he is delighted to hear the piercing cry of a distressed child. 

"Sorry," John insists, padding into the kitchen with both hands gripped knuckle-white on to the handle of the baby carrier. "She won't stop and I... No one else would be awake at this time and I just need to see another adult face for once before I lose it entirely, I'm sorry."

"Sit down John" Sherlock says, swiping the Petri dishes from the table and flinging them into the sink so that John has space to put Violet's carrier down. It is two days work wasted but John is limping again and the lines around his eyes are etched a little more deeply than normal so Sherlock simply moves to switching on the kettle. 

"Thank you." John says, settling the crying baby on the table. "I've tried everything, she's not hungry or wet, I've rocked her and sung to her and I can't get her to stop."

John is fretting, stooped over the carrier instead of sitting down. Violet is taking gulps of air between wracking sobs but her face is bright red. 

Sherlock sets the made tea down on the tabletop and ushers John into a chair. John sits obediently, almost not noticing he has been coerced into it. His hand is still resting in the carrier when Sherlock leans over to peer into Violet's reddened cheeks. 

"Miss Violet" he rumbles, deep and soothingly "That will very much do."

Moving without words to the living room he lifts his violin to his chin. It's an old French lullaby, unconsciously one his mother used to sing to them. Entirely too sentimental, but Sherlock doubts John will understand the significance.

After a few bars, Violet is so surprised at the strange noise she stops crying to contemplate Sherlock quietly. Her bright eyes are wide as she considers him and the flowing melody of the violin. She snuffles a few times as though trying to continue crying but it appears her cycle of misery has been stopped. 

Sherlock closes his eyes and finishes out the song, swaying slightly as he flourishes the final note. As he turns he is aware of the silence. Both Violet and John have closed their eyes, John's hand is still trailing into the carrier and Violet's tiny fingers are wrapped around his thumb as though afraid he will leave. John has his head pillowed on his other arm, mouth slightly open with the hiss of a snore in the back of his throat. 

Sherlock knows John's shoulder will ache if he stays in the position, but doesn't know how to go about waking him. Seeing no alternative, he means to press a finger softly into John's cheek but finds himself flattening his palm to run across John's hair. 

"Mmm?" John says, stirring and Sherlock's fingers run through the thin strands of his hair. 

Sherlock retracts his hand as though burned, the obvious emotional nature of the act positively damning in nature, though for what exact emotion, Sherlock couldn't say. 

"She is asleep." Sherlock settles for saying instead, pointing out the obvious in a way that would irritate him had it come from someone else. 

"Yeah," John says, running a hand down his face and breathing in loudly. "God, how did you know that would work?"

Sherlock is tempted to remind John that he is a genius and has done studies on pretty much every subject, including child care, but that research has been coincidentally recent and he thinks that is a significance John might hazard to guess at and come up with the wrong conclusion. 

"I didn't" he shrugs, "But children in a crying cycle sometimes need foreign external stimulus to shock them from the behaviour."

"You mean she was just fussing and needed something to focus on."

"You have been without any company but her for a month John, I'd wager you would cry if you thought it socially acceptable." Sherlock smirks, "And you yourself settled down as soon as you were in company. She wanted a change of scenery is all, I'd wager."

"I'm crap at this." John whispers as though scared it is true, "I'm not sure if I can do it."

"Nonsense," Sherlock says reaching for Violet and taking her carefully from her seat. She is a comfortable weight in his arms, and he feels that same comfort and protectiveness rumble through him as he had when he first held her. It is irrational but he smiles as soon as he is far enough into the corridor to his room that John won't see. 

He runs his pillows down either side of her, creating a channel on the centre of the bed that she can rest in without fear of her falling off. He sets her blanket over her softly before leaving her to rest. He doesn't close the door, but leaves it halfway open so that even in the kitchen he can hear the soft sound of her breathing. 

"Didn't peg you for good with children." John says as he emerges. 

He is making tea. He has trusted Sherlock to care for his daughter without feeling the need to follow and check up on him. Sherlock feels a lump in his throat but swallows it down with outright defiance. 

"I am not, as a rule." 

"Just Vi then, isn't she lucky."

Sherlock accepts the tea John passes to him without replying. Taking a sip he realises it is exactly as it always is when John makes it. Not that he makes it for him often, Sherlock is more than capable of taking care of that himself, but as is always the way with flatmates, John has made his fair share over the years. 

"Vi?" Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. 

"Miss Violet?" John retorts. 

Sherlock nods and laughs slowly. It feels almost normal, comradely, familiar. But John isn't as easily swayed. 

"I'll give her an hour or so," John says, "But then I should take her home to her own bed. It's not ideal but at least she'll rest for a bit and then she can sleep it off in her own home."

"She is welcome here, John. As are you."

"I know. Thank you Sherlock, honestly. But we need to be able to do this alone."

John finished his tea, collects his sleeping daughter up into the carrier once more and wishes Sherlock a goodnight. 

"Goodnight." Sherlock replies, and John is gone.

\------

The second time it happens a few weeks later, Sherlock is not nearly as absorbed in what he is doing so he hears the faint rattle of the door downstairs as John tries mightily to keep quiet. Violet isn't screaming nearly as loudly this time, but Sherlock has his violin ready and the kettle already on by the time John reaches the top of the stairs. 

There is gratitude in his eyes as he lays Violet on the sofa between cushions, her soft body relaxing as Sherlock begins to play. John goes to the kitchen to finish the tea as Sherlock sways his way through a soft folk tune he hadn't known he still remembered. This one courtesy of his grand-mere he thinks. 

"Pity you aren't available for early evening performances," John says as he settles into his arm chair, "It's probably not good for her to be up so late in the first place."

Sherlock puts the violin away and sits in his own armchair across from John, reaching for the mug John has set out for him. 

"I'm not usually busy in the early evening." Sherlock notes with a smile. "Murders take place at all times of the day of course, but as a rule..."

"That's nice of you," Says John with an odd formality to him, his posture stiff again, not at all as relaxed as he was a moment ago "But we are going to be fine. Just us two, we'll be fine."

He doesn't know why John insists upon doing it alone when he doesn't have to, but he doesn't ask. Instead, they drink their tea in silence and an hour later John stands. 

"Goodnight," he says once he has his bundled up daughter in the carrier and is heading out of the door. 

"Goodnight" Sherlock replies, but it is so soft he isn't sure John hears him.

\-----

When Violet is two months old John starts visiting earlier. It is almost a routine except that Sherlock cannot predict when it will happen. Only that at some point in the early evening, between six and seven o'clock, Sherlock will hear John's chatter on the stairs as he talks to Violet. 

He uses full sentences, full of things she will have no comprehension of but John doesn't believe in baby talk. Which is fortunate, because the few times Sherlock has been left in the room with her while John goes to the bathroom, he hadn't been able to conjure up any inane gibberish either. 

John climbs the stairs, settles Violet on the couch, never the bed after that first night, and Sherlock plays. Often he doesn't remember what tune it is he offers her, but mostly it's something from his childhood. He doesn't tell John this, just plays without talking. Sometimes John will make tea, sometimes Sherlock manages to pour it before John reaches the living room. Either way, once Violet has shifted off to sleep, they sit for an hour talking of nothing in particular and John slowly unwinds his muscles. 

Sherlock makes sure never to mention that they are helping each other in these moments, they both like to maintain the illusion that they are fine on their own and Sherlock is more than happy to perpetuate that myth. 

It is one night after Violet has fallen asleep peacefully that this treaty is shattered. She was fussier than usual, settling eventually but it took two different songs on the violin to bring it about and Sherlock's tea had gone cold. 

John stayed later that evening, content to sit in his arm chair in their comfortable silence and read whatever trash crime novel he was reading these days. He's making the stirring motions of intending to leave when Violet wakes in a screech of sound Sherlock had never heard before.

“Oh come on little one,” John coos, taking her into his arms. “Shit! Sherlock, she’s burning up.” 

The doctor has a palm cupped around her tiny skull, flushed skin sitting next to his tanned fingers, wailing screams coming from between them. 

“Ring the paramedics.” 

“John.” 

“Seriously Sherlock. Oh here.. I’ll do it.” John thrusts the crying child at Sherlock who lifts his arms just in time to cradle her softly against him. 

“John.” Says Sherlock, rocking Violet rhythmically with one arm as he rests the other on John’s shoulder, squeezing briefly before he catches himself. “She’s fine.” 

“She’s boiling.” John insists, a high note of panic touching his voice in a way that Sherlock hasn’t seen for quite a while. Reminiscent of Baskerville, but Sherlock doesn’t point this out. 

“She has probably picked something up,” Sherlock makes sure to keep his voice level. “Surely you have Calpol, child paracetamol?” 

“Yeah, I… You’re right. I’m overreacting.” John lowers his arm from his pocket, mobile still gripped in his fingers. 

“Just try the medication first is all I’m saying,” Sherlock attempts a smile, “if she’s still bad in an hour, we can think about calling the doctors.” 

John visibly relaxes, the muscles in his shoulders unfolding, but Violet is still screaming so he can’t rest completely. John grabs the Calpol from his bag and carefully administers it to her, leaning close into Sherlock’s space as he guides the tiny dose into her mouth and tries to convince her to swallow it. 

She is still fussing, kicking her tiny legs and moving her arms, frustrated at being unable to communicate. Sherlock isn’t sure why but he begins to murmur to her, nonsense words that have no meaning at all, calling her Miss Violet and telling her that everything is not half as bad as she thinks. 

John leaves her with him and Sherlock is struck once again but how John trusts him to care for her. John makes more tea and sits down in his chair as Sherlock stretches out on the sofa, tucking Violet into his chest.

Later, when her temperature has come down enough that she goes soft and yielding in his arms once more, Sherlock reluctantly rises from his prone position on the couch and settles her down into her carrier again. 

John is looking at him with that same odd look he’d had on his face when he’d come down from his room to find him holding Violet. Sherlock wonders if he should back off, maintain some distance between himself and the child. She is, after all, not his relative in any sense of the word and John is still mad at him. 

“I’m glad you were here tonight,” John says, coming to stand beside him and Sherlock straightens from the strapping her in. 

“You were here,” Sherlock amends, “I am where I always am.” 

“Well I’m glad we were here then,” John corrects, “I don’t know what I would have done if I was by myself. I’d have her in A&E for a cold.” 

“It is perfectly natural for first time parents to overreact in medical situations.” Sherlock reels off as he tries not to notice that John is standing close enough for him to smell the scent of the shampoo he uses and the dried milk on his wrist where he’d tested Violet’s dinner.

“I’m a doctor.” 

“So you know how bad it can be,” Sherlock says, picking up Violet’s chair and passing it over to John. 

“Yeah but still, I am sorry I went a little crazy there. Thank you for your help.” 

“I don’t wish to intrude,” Sherlock blurts out and John steps away. “I know she’s your daughter and you’re still mad at me for the Mary thing. So if my holding her is in any way intrusive please accept this as reassurance that I won’t do it again.” 

“Sherlock,” John shakes his head briefly, as though pondering how Sherlock can be so smart and yet so dumb all at the same time. “She is my daughter, and yes I still have a lot of issues to work through. But in the end I am going to get over it, and you will be Uncle Sherlock.” 

“That is... “ Sherlock swallows a hard lump again, wondering if he is getting a cold himself. “Good to know.” 

John flicks the corner of his mouth up easily and slaps a warm palm on to Sherlock's shoulder. 

“Anyway, better get her home. Goodnight Sherlock.” 

Sherlock lets John out of the door with the burning sensation of John’s hand still resonant on his skin. “Goodnight.”


	4. I Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Who knows how long I've loved you_  
>  You know I love you still  
> Will I wait a lonely lifetime  
> If you want me to, I will  
> I Will - The Beatles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So shocked that people like this little story. Thanks for the kudos and comments, they mean a lot!

The idea came to him as most plots do, in the form of a guilty thought that grew out of control. Sherlock knew planning yet another scheme to manipulate John was erring on the side of a 'bit not good' but somehow the benefits of the thing far outweighed any reservations he had. Besides, it wasn't as if there was going to be anything particularly difficult about it, and John wouldn't suffer in any way. In the end, it was a simple choice to follow through with it and he didn't even have to consider his motivations. 

John takes to coming over every evening these days, and they still aren't talking about why. He lingers after Violet falls asleep and Sherlock often wonders if John cherishes those moments as much as he does. 

It didn't exactly start out as a plan, merely a precaution. Violet had stirred during the few hours she slept at Sherlock's before John took her home and cried out that she needed changing. John leapt up from his book and fumbled in the changing bag for a clean nappy. Cursing under his breath Sherlock noted the obvious conclusion that he'd run out.

"I swear I topped this up the other day." John grumbled.

"Under the bathroom sink," Sherlock says, not looking up from his laptop screen where it is perched on his right knee, ankle resting on his left. 

John pulls a face Sherlock cannot entirely read in his peripheral vision and goes to investigate. "Why?" he asks, emerging from the bathroom with a clean nappy and baby wipes. 

"Don't ask stupid questions" Sherlock snaps. 

John doesn't, instead he changes Violet and rather than bundling her up to leave, settles her back down again. 

"That could have been a disaster," John chuckles, "Thank God for your weird quirks. What on earth kind of case would you need nappies for?"

Sherlock smirks and settles back down to his research for the case he is currently working on. John stays later than usual that night, and the plan begins to form. 

\------

The case is thrilling. He hasn't had one run in quite a long time. Chasing the suspect and pinning him down on the cold, wet concrete is disaster on his clothing but an absolute delight when it comes to the adrenaline spiking through his veins. 

It's the early hours of the morning by the time he gets back to his flat, the sun peeking up over the horizon and bathing the sky in orange light.

Sherlock lets himself in and climbs the stairs two at a time. He's already starting to ache from running about and is looking forward to a hot shower when he comes to a dead stop on the threshold of his living room. 

John is curled in his armchair, Violet tucked into the warm cradle of pillows on the couch as she always is. they are both silent apart from the snuffling sound of languid breaths. 

The door had already been closing behind him so he doesn't have time to stop it before it bangs shut and all hell breaks loose. Violet is shocked from sleep so suddenly that her only reaction is to cry out. Three-month-old lungs already used to screaming have reach new heights of vocal anguish. She's not usually a fussy child, no more so than any other according to Sherlock's research, perhaps she had inherited some of the Watson stoicism. Still, the loud noise also wakes her father who, dazed and confused, leaps from his seat and appears to be searching for something at his hip. 

"Sorry," Sherlock says, already reaching for Violet and cuddling her close. "Miss Violet I am sorry I woke you," he says stroking a hand over her head. Her hair is starting to curl, not tight ringlets, just reminiscent of the waves that happen to John's hair also if it is allowed to grow past his regular army-issue crop. 

"Jesus Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" The lines in John's face are deep, furrowing between his eyes as he frowns angrily. 

Violet has dropped into a half-sob now and Sherlock moves to gather a bottle from her bag, silent as he sets it in the microwave for 20 seconds to warm through. "Shh, shh" he mumbles to the child as the microwave pings and he tips her to laying in the curve of his elbow and angles the bottle to her lips. The cries cease as she latches on, sucking in the warm formula that will hopefully fill her belly enough to help her drift back to sleep. 

"I didn't know you would be here." Sherlock says, "I'm sorry. She's fine. Look."

"Yeah," John flexes his hand momentarily before wiping it hard on his upper thigh. Sherlock thinks he probably isn't supposed to notice so he doesn't say anything about how John had been searching for his gun when he woke. "It's fine. Whatever. You're right. I thought you'd be back so I just sat down for a moment. I must have drifted off." He huffs out warm breath, angling it up to his forehead with his bottom lip. 

"It's fine. I'll be more careful next time."

"No, Sherlock. I can't just keep coming here all the time. She's... She should be in her own bloody bed instead of falling asleep on a couch every night. I'm the worst father in the world. I can cope. We will cope."

"John," Sherlock coaxes, unable to find the words to tell him that he doesn't need to do it alone. That Sherlock is his friend and he's feeding Violet now and she's settled. She has rested in his arms because of something he did. In the end he doesn't try to speak, just feeds her and straps her back in to her chair so John can take her home. The words probably don't exist to describe the feeling anyway.

\-----

John's resolve lasts two weeks. Sherlock is in the bathroom when he hears John's footsteps and although he wants to, he can't quite make it to turning on the kettle this time. It's a shame, because he really had been looking forward to seeing the expression on John's face.

"This is completely unnecessary Sherlock," he calls as he spots it, "I assume it's not left over from a crime scene...." his voice trails off as he pokes his head around the open doorway. "Shit!"

John sets the carrier down at the door, angling it away slightly so Violet will not have to see and falls to kneel at the side of Sherlock, perched on the toilet lid.

"It's nothing." Sherlock reassures him, head spinning slightly. 

"Nothing? Sherlock, you've been stabbed."

"I was grazed," Sherlock insists, trying to sit up from where he is hunched over, but feeling the warm trickle of blood through his fingers as he does. 

"It'll need stitches." John says.

"Under the sink," Sherlock indicates with a hiss. 

John rummages until he finds his old first aid kit and sets to cleaning the wound in Sherlock's side. His fingers are blunt and deft and Sherlock wishes that the pain would lessen slightly so he could enjoy the sensation of them on his skin. The loss of blood, he reasons, has made his thought process do odd things. 

"Does that cupboard have everything I need to look after you two?" John asks distractingly as he begins to apply the stitches with latex covered fingers. They are still warm, Sherlock notes, but not quite as wonderful now they are covered. 

It's nice, Sherlock thinks, head lolling slightly to the side, that John would take care of them. He and Violet would take care of John too, they could all take care of each other, in a way. Blood, he decides, is vital to the functionality of his brain, and completely necessary to keep his sanity. Any deficit, and he is prone to ridiculous flights of fancy.

"Come on," John says, sliding an arm under Sherlock's and heaving him up. The stitches are finished and the cut is covered by gauze and bandage. Sherlock doesn't remember John finishing it at all. "Couch."

Sherlock stumbles as he walks, head feeling spaced out. John is pressed against his side, taking his weight as they navigate around Violet's carrier and over to the couch. John sets him down, arranging the cushion behind his head as Sherlock lies down. Reluctant to leave the warmth of John's body behind, he lingers slightly in a way that makes John think he cannot lay down without help. Once he is comfortable. John goes back for Violet and sets her down on the coffee table. 

"Hello Miss Violet." Sherlock slurs. 

"Painkillers," John says thrusting a hand at Sherlock as he glances over to Violet. He half expects a show of solidarity at the ridiculousness of John's fussing, for she has likely been the recipient of it too on occasion, but Violet simply blows a spit bubble and breaks into a grin at his anguish. "Take them Sherlock or I'll force them down your throat myself."

Sherlock doesn't doubt that the army captain is more than capable of carrying out said threat and swallows them down with water obediently. Laying his head down again, he blinks at violet who is opening and closing her chubby fist with such concentration that Sherlock briefly wonders if it is as difficult as she is making it out to be. 

He raising his own hand in front of his face, showing it to Violet as he clenches his own fist loosely before splaying his fingers. 

"Yes, you are both very clever." John muses, that strange look on his face again. It is a soft look, Sherlock realises, tight at the corners of his mouth but otherwise void of any tensed muscles. It could be a smile, except John hasn't allowed his lips to stretch that wide.

"Not from a crime scene," Sherlock mumbles, closing his eyes. 

"Good." John replies and Sherlock can hear the faraway sound of him unbuckling Violet's chair and lifting her from it. "Don't you need the desk where it was though?"

"It's warm there," Sherlock breathes, the painkillers dulling the effort of it.

"Why?" John asks, settling Violet down.

"Out of direct sunlight but with enough residual heat to keep her cozy. It can also be viewed from any seat in the room. An ideal place to put a cot outside of the obvious spot in my bedroom."

"No," John says and Sherlock thinks he has probably stood up and moved to his chair but he's having a hard time tracking him. "Why?" John repeats.

"Can't sleep on the couch." Sherlock mumbles.

"Why not, you are." John's laugh floats into his head as Sherlock searches for a reply. He has one, he reassures himself, but it's just too far away. In the end, he's not sure whether he says anything or not but when he wakes, the sun is in the sky, John is gone and the cot is empty.

\-----

"How's the stab wound?" John asks, bent over Violet's cot in Sherlock's living room holding a stuffed toy. 

"Not a stab wound," Sherlock repeats for the hundredth time, handing John tea when he straightens. 

It is the middle of the afternoon. Violet is only being put down for a nap and Sherlock is unsure of the parameters in this new situation. 

"Lunch." John decides for him, "Speedys?"

Sherlock nods as John's eyes flick over to Violet. 

"You okay looking after her while I go?"

"Of course," Sherlock says, choosing a spot on the sofa rather than his armchair so he has a direct line of sight into the crib. Despite his ramblings under analgesics, he does not think the vantage point from his chair is the best one to keep an eye on her. Anywhere else is fine. 

John gets that look again briefly before grabbing his keys. "Won't be long." 

He doesn't offer instructions, doesn't remind Sherlock of when she last ate or what to do if she wakes and needs attention, simply trusts him to know all of that anyway. 

"Miss Violet," Sherlock whispers, "Your father's trust issues should probably be flaring up right about now.

When John returns with sandwiches, Violet has tucked her little fist to her mouth and is suckling on it gently. Sherlock had wondered at the process of it, mesmerised by the tiny yet perfectly formed shape of her philtrum and wandered over to sit cross-legged in front of the cot. 

It is blue, with white cotton netting filling in the frame on the four sides. He can see her through it as she breathes and he is wondering at all the biological processes going on in her body, the same as in John's and in Mary's when she was alive, the same as Sherlock's even on a basic human level, but in tiny tiny miniature. 

"I did that a lot at first," John supplies with a laugh, "she's fascinating"

"Yes," Sherlock stands, running a palm down his shirt placket to smooth out any wrinkles, "A lot of interesting data to be acknowledged."

Sherlock takes the customary two bites of his sandwich once they are in their chairs, before setting it down. 

"I know what you're doing you know," John smirks.

"Eating?"

"Barely, no. I mean with Violet."

"I'm not doing anything with Violet," Sherlock says, raising his voice slightly in protest, "I would never harm her John I--"

"No, no. Not what I meant."

Sherlock tilts his head, bring his fingers up to his mouth. "Go on."

"I mean with the cot," John tips his head forward to acknowledge it, "And the nappies in the bathroom and the 'Miss Violet' nonsense. I know what you're doing."

"And what," Sherlock asks, "pray tell, is that?"

"You're trying to convince me that moving back here is a good idea." 

Sherlock snaps his lips shut from the answer he'd prepared, because surprisingly, John is dead on.

"You think that by showing me you can help with the baby and that the flat is a perfectly habitable place for her, I'll move back here and help you with cases again, but it isn't as simple as clearing the table of experiments and learning how to heat up formula."

"I--" Sherlock stops, the cot and the nappies had been thought out, yes, but had he really not had experiments laying around recently? Yes, he thinks, he has been occupied with other things recently but that isn't because it's been part of the plan. "Any idiot knows how to heat formula," he finishes, lamely. 

"It's not that I don't appreciate it," John says, "You have been a big help. I honestly wouldn't have coped without you, but I can't rely on you."

"Why not?" Sherlock asks, his eyes wide with genuine curiosity, "What would be so bad about that?"

"I just can't."

"We're friends," Sherlock insisted, "Best friends, you said, who else would help?"

"Who else indeed." John murmurs darkly. 

"I..I care for her John," Sherlock confesses, surprising himself more than anyone else. "I didn't expect to but I look at her and I... I want to keep her safe."

"Exactly," John nods, "And we know what you do when you want to keep people safe. We know the lengths you go to. You can't be in her life as much as you would be, even as much as you are, if you're just going to leave."

Sherlock is taken back, blinks a few times as he processes the information, "I'm not going anywhere."

"But you might, you did."

"That was a one-time event, John. I have no intentions of--"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"You never do," Sherlock sniffs, "How can I convince you that it won't happen again if you won't ever let me explain?"

"It doesn't matter," John shakes his head, rising from the chair and going to the kitchen to throw everything away. 

Their voices were raised, Sherlock realises, and glances over at Violet to make sure she is asleep before following John. 

"I said it doesn't matter Sherlock." John speaks, throwing away the sandwich wrappers before moving to clear some plates into the sink. 

"It matters to me," Sherlock insists, handing him his empty mug. It is a parody of their previous habitation, John clearing up while Sherlock does yet another thing that annoys him. 

"Because you want me here at your beck and call."

"I am capable," Sherlock insists, resting a hip on the sink. "Do you see the flat falling down around your ears? Have I become ill or suffered some other malady because you were not here to help me?

"I'm cleaning up right now. And you were stabbed for Christ's sake."

"Nobody asked you to," Sherlock says, aware of how close they are, pressed together so their voices do not carry over to the sleeping child. "I get stabbed or punched or knocked out every other month John, whether you are here or not. I am aware that you have a child to care for and have endeavoured to show you that you are not alone in that. Not because I want you here to take care of me too, but because despite what you may think, you do not have to to do this by yourself."

"You know what you are saying Sherlock," John whispers, anointing the words with his hushed tones, "It's not a temporary thing. If we do this, you are effectively raising her. You can't do that and then give up when you get bored."

"John."

"No Sherlock, don't give me the 'everyone is an idiot' look, I'm serious. She's interesting now but what about when she starts talking? When she's asking you inane questions that you don't want to answer?"

"You do that all the time anyway," Sherlock jokes, "What is one more inquisitive Watson?"

"I am doing fine," John says, "What makes you think I need your help anyway."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, nearly gives him the look again but restrains himself. "Please do not make me list in the ways in which I could deduce that you are floundering. Fine. It's for me," he insists, "If I said I wanted you to move back because I am not coping would that make it easier?"

"Are you?" John asks seriously, "Honestly?"

"On a basic level, in that I can can _take care_ of myself, yes." He sucks in a breath, tells himself that the next bit is a lie, that he's making things up to convince John. Somehow lying to his best friend is easier to swallow than the fact that it might be the truth. "But I find I am lonely without you here all the time. I have become accustomed to your presence, to Violet's. When you leave I--"

"Okay, Sherlock." John stops him, removing the need for Sherlock to consider what he was going to say, "I think, on a temporary basis, yes. But so help me if you hurt her in any way. Me, I've been through it before and I'm sure I could cope. But she's brand new Sherlock, she hasn't been exposed to your particular brand of bullshit yet. I will protect her at all costs."

"Of course John, I would expect nothing less."

"Temporary," John repeats. 

"Of course," Sherlock smiles, "It could only be until she would need her own room anyway. We don't have the space, then we've have to see about other..."

"I meant for a few months." John clarifies, "Until I get on my feet or something. I mean, I'm not planning on it any time soon and God knows it probably won't happen but I can't raise her with you forever, I might meet someone or just want to be by myself. As much as you can't leave her, Sherlock, you have to know that at some point we would go our own way again. It's impractical to think that we could raise her in some sort of weird non-family."

Sherlock nods but doesn't agree at all. They _are_ family, his only family. He has Mycroft of course, and yes, his parents are alive but they won't be around forever and he has never gotten along with his brother. He can imagine John being around forever, does get along with him, can picture them older with Violet running rings around them. He wants to bring them both into himself and protect them for always. He nods, but he doesn't agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter that is allowed to count towards NaNoWriMo. I'm on holiday in Barbados right now so im hoping I can get some more written soon (I already have the next one at least) but we're off too see our family on the island today so I won't get as much done as I would like. 
> 
> As always, I would really love it if you added me [on Tumblr](http://ah-hudders.tumblr.com) I do really love interacting with all of you. - I recently changed my URL to ah-hudders.


	5. Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Please don't stand so close to me_  
>  I'm having trouble breathing  
> I'm afraid of what you'll see right now  
> Distance - Christina Perri

"John, your constant banging is waking the baby."

Sherlock didn't hear John's reply from upstairs, focussed as he was on the fact that his previous sentence had come out of his mouth. This was his lot now, sharing his domestic space with John Watson once again, but placed in a position of care over a life that could not care for itself. 

"I think it's just about done," John says, descending the stairs to find Sherlock offering Violet a bottle. His mouth tenses at the corners. 

"You're pulling that face again," Sherlock mumbles without looking up, "You do it everytime I hold her. Is there something wrong? We've discussed this."

"What look?"

"I don't know. I can't put my finger on it. You sort of look like you're smiling but..." Sherlock waves his fingers to the mirror, urging John to look at his reflection. 

"It's nothing," John says, glancing over at himself and wiping the look from his face, "I am smiling. It's good."

Sherlock nods as Violet finally accepts the bottle. "There we are Miss Violet," Sherlock grins, "that's the way."

"You don't think the move is disrupting her?" John asks, stepping forward to caress her head briefly, "She's been a little fussy."

"Probably nothing. She'll be fine. You put her cot from home in your room, yes?" 

"Yes." 

"We'll keep this one in here, for her naps," Sherlock says, "That way she is nearby."

John smiles, placing the baby monitor on the side table next to his chair. "Do you have everything planned out already?" 

"Of course not," Sherlock shrugs, the motion isn't as big as it would be because he doesn't want to disrupt Violet's feed, but John understands. "Children are notoriously unpredictable. Can't plan for everything."

"No you can't." John says, his body angling in so the warmth of him spreads across Sherlock’s front. He reaches out, strong fingers sliding around Sherlock’s bicep in beautiful pressure, just slightly, before moving away. Sherlock was momentarily stunned at the contact, letting his hand fall limp as he allowed a slight shiver to run through himself. Violet let out a tiny yelp at the loss of her lunch and Sherlock was startled out of it. 

"Want me to take her?" John says from where he has moved to stacking books on the shelf. It was good to have John's boring paperbacks where they belonged. So what if he could figure out who the murderer was by the end of the first chapter, their presence meant John is home. 

"I'm fine," Sherlock insists, "We're going to be good friends aren't we Miss Violet?"

Violet gurgles and smiles at him, Sherlock know she can't understand him, but damn it all if it doesn't warm his heart anyway.

\-----

It isn't just Violet's presence makng things strange. Sherlock is sure he had developed some physiological fault in his brain that makes his breath hitch every time John stands close to him. John's hip brushes his as they hunch over Violet, feeding her or playing with her, John places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder as he places a cup of tea down next to him and Sherlock feels his entire respiratory system come to a stop. He is sure John can't see these tiny moments of weakness but Sherlock makes sure to turn his head anyway.

He tries to keep an arm's length between them after that. Not crowding John in the same way he always has, stepping backwards purposefully when he feels himself straying too close. It seems to be working, most of the time. 

Violet cries at night. Waking a couple of times for milk or to be changed. Since Sherlock doesn't sleep most nights anyway, it is only logical that he be the one to tend to her in these moments. 

Creeping silently in to John's room at the first signs of her stirring, Sherlock lifts her from her cot and holds her close. He gets to her before she starts crying in earnest, but never to be denied the chance, she cries anyway.

"S'going on?" John asks sleepily, the crying pulling him from his dream quickly. He's less disorientated these days but Sherlock can still see the tightening of his eyes and the flex of his hand that means he still expects the rush of sand in his eyes sand and the heavy presence of a gun at his waist when he wakes. 

"I've got her," Sherlock whispers, laying her down to change her, "go back to sleep."

John nods but climbs from his bed anyway. "You didn't have to do that."

"I was awake," Sherlock waves a disimssive hand as he reaches for a clean nappy. 

"You're always awake," John laughs, shuffling closer and placing that hand on Sherlock's shoulder again. "Maybe I should tuck you into bed at night too, just to make sure you rest." 

Sherlock's mouth does open to reply, but John's hand is still on his shoulder, longer than it has ever been there before and Sherlock can't form words past the warmth of John's sleep-heated skin pressed against him through the thin material of his dressing gown and worn grey t-shirt. 

John laughs again, a humid huff of air against Sherlock's arm and Sherlock realises John has stepped closer and bent over to look at Violet. 

"She's still not right," John murmurs, "I think that virus is lingering."

"She'll be fine," Sherlock reassures as John straightens and finally drops his hand. His voice sounds cracked but he hopes John will think it's the quiet of the night making it seem that way.

"I'm awake now," John stretches his arms over his head and the delicate strip of skin appearing at the hem of his t-shirt distracts Sherlock long enough that he nearly forgets Violet on the changing table in front of him. "Tea?" John asks, lowering his arms, and Sherlock is finally able to concentrate again. 

"I'll put her back down, be there in a minute."

John tips his head slightly, probably unconsciously. "Okay," he says softly, hand flexing momentarily and Sherlock wonders what part of this quiet moment makes John wish he had a gun. It isn't always physical protection, he knows that, but it's hard to deduce which emotion has risen in John that he would want to keep under wraps with the aid of weaponary. 

"You're good with her," he whispers as he leaves, "thank you."

"Don't mention it," Sherlock replies, and he is glad his back his turned because at that moment, he is scared that he doesn't have enough of his own emotional firearms to keep the soft look of affection from showing on his face. 

\-----

Violet's fussy behaviour doesn't really die down any over the coming weeks. John worries, he always does, but it seems he is trying to rein in the typical first-time-parent reaction and not jump to the worst case scenario. 

"Come on Vi," John coos, walking the floor with her in the late evening. They'd been trying to get her down for about an hour and a half now. The violin wasn't working and no matter what they do, she doesn't seem to settle. 

"What can I do?" Sherlock asks, hands limp at his sides where he'd put down the instrument. "Tell me what to do."

"Nothing!" John shouts suddenly, the loud noise making Violet's screams start all over again. "Just leave us alone," he continues at a slighly lower volume, "You can't help us. I never should have moved her, she's not used to being here. It's upsetting her. Just go."

"John."

"My God Sherlock, can't you see I just need a minute? I can't do this with you constantly hovering and judging me."

Sherlock frowns. Feels his brows knit together and scans John's muscles, tight around his shoulders. He cradles Violet, desperately willing her to stop crying, and Sherlock itches to reach out to them both.

"You are an excellent father John, I am not judging you otherwise." 

"But you are judging me."

"Never."

"Just... I'll be down soon," he urges, "please?"

Sherlock nods, his hands feeling empty and useless as he leaves. Needing to do something, he makes tea. It's becoming a ritual rather than having any real use, but he doesn't know what else to do. 

John comes down fifteen minutes later when his tea is just about still drinkable and his chair has a breeze blowing over it from the open window. It's stuffy and Sherlock is uncomfortable, August heat has crept into the room and made it claustrophobic, he fidgets in his chair, trying to find a settled position for what comes next.

"Sorry," John says, "I'm... Struggling. At the moment." He sighs, sipping his tea as though it too is the only thing he knows how to do. 

"You're doing fine."

"No," John insists, the anger in him rising, " _you_ are doing fine. I have no idea what I'm doing."

"Being a parent. Everyone worries. I'm not her parent, I don't have the same emotional investment." 

"You might as well be," John sets his cup down and throws up his arms in frustration. "It all comes so easily to you, you go to her before I do, you can make her sleep better than I can. I don't know what I'm doing." 

"John..."

"I know, I know." John sighs, "I am... I can't keep finding more things to be mad at you for. You've done so much for me, for us, I should be over it." 

"But you're not."

"I... I don't know what I am." John admits, "it's not too much, I just can't let it all go yet. I'm messed up, nothing I want seems to go... It's all lies. It falls apart. Everyone leaves eventually and you will too and I can't get past that."

"I've told you I'm not going anywhere--"

"You did," John nods, "but I'm having a hard time trusting you."

Sherlock must let his emotions cross his face because John is quick to backtrack. 

"I trust you with her," he amends, "implicitly, I know you would never hurt her. I trust you to do what is best in the given situation to do the thing that will protect her."

"Good."

"But I don't trust you to do it in a way that includes me."

"What... I don't understand."

John purses his lips for a moment before continuing. "If you'd told me," he says earnestly, deep blue eyes boring into Sherlock in a way that unnerves him. "I would have gone with you. To the end of the earth Sherlock, I would have gone."

Sherlock can't answer then. Doesn't know if he wants to, just wants to dive into that lingering promise and swim in all the might-have-beens. 

"I don't trust that if that situation was given to you again that you would stay with me. With us. If you decided it was best, if you thought that it would protect us...her, you would go again and you wouldn't tell me." 

Sherlock doesn't want to lie and say that he would. He wants to think that he's a good person that he could swear to John that he'd tell him and never break that oath. But he's not, and he might. 

"She's asleep now," John says after a moment, changing the subject, "I'd better see if I can get a few hours before she wakes up again. Hopefully this will all stop soon." 

Sherlock worries he means their tentative friendship, that he wants to move out again, end it. He realises finally, once the emotions have finally been beaten into submission, that he means Violet's sleeping habits. 

"I have her," Sherlock says, "sleep."

"I'll be up in a bit,"

"There's no need..."

"I'm her father," John says pointedly, "I'll be up."

Sherlock dips his chin to his chest in a silent nod. John leaves with just as much silence, traipsing up the stairs quietly in the hope that he will not wake her. Little do they both know, it is far from over, this is not the last quiet moment they will spend in the dark, hoping for the best.


	6. Best of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tell me what you thought about_  
>  When you were gone and, so alone  
> Best of Me - Starting Line

As a rule, Sherlock Holmes does not panic. He approaches situations rationally and does not give in to the fear so readily associated with being unprepared. Four nights of Violet's anguished cries are enough to make him question this fact on a cellular level. 

She wakes him from a sleep he hadn't intended to take. It must only have been an hour or so, he is still slumped over on the couch, laptop balanced precariously on one knee. He curses that he wasn't awake and seeing to her before she starts crying in earnest, but after four nights in a row he was bound to make a mistake. 

He has the time to feel the hammering in his chest, the cold sweat of one too many bad scenarios run through his head, all processed at the same speed, all equally chilling in their own way before he is on his feet. His hands shake and he flexes them, squeezes the muscles tightly, trying to make this feeling go away, but it won't, he has to know.

He takes the stairs to John's room two at a time, creeping through door to find John has already taken her from her cot and is rocking her gently. He is making soft soothing sounds in the back of his throat, a vibrating hum resonating across the distance and in to Sherlock's chest. The sound wraps itself around the pumping tremor of Sherlock's heart and slows its pace to a steady rhythm. Violet must sense this magical effect too because her cries lessen, she is still in distress, croaks of air coughed out at random intervals against John's chest but the pitch of her screams dies down as the calming hand of doctor and father runs over her back.

He knows it would be wrong to smile at this moment, it shouldn't make him happy to see John so full of love for her but it does, he looks at the pair and tries not to count them as his, knows they never will be, that he has them only temporarily but he is still thankful for it. He tenses his mouth and avoids a smile. 

"I've got her," John says, "Sorry if she disturbed you."

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow and adopts his 'everyone-is-an-idiot' face. The one John hates, but this time it makes him chuckle. 

"You're getting worse than me."

"I am not. The crying interrupted my research is all."

"Okay," John is giving her Calpol again, administering it on that tiny spoon. He shakes his head at Sherlock's dismissal, sees right through his bravado to how much the detective cares for this tiny child. Sherlock wishes he was better at hiding it.

"Is it the virus?" Sherlock's voice is shakier than he'd like and his arms itch to take Violet from John and cradle her close. It isn't his place, perhaps he shouldn't even be in this room, accepting any responsiblity at all. 

"No," John says as Violet's tiny lungs cough out yet another wracking breath, "I think it's colic. I'll pick up some gripe water tomorrow. I should have figured it out sooner but I was too worried."

"Well, that's good. I mean, Colic isn't damaging is it? Not life threatening."

John smiles, setting Violet down again as she settles somewhat, "No, I should probably stay up now though, keep an eye on her."

He crosses to the bed, sits against the headboard and picks up the dog-eared paperback on his bedside table. He's warm like this, bathed in the soft glow of the lamp next to the bed, picking up the golden tones in his hair. Sherlock turns his face away just so that he can breath. He coughs, trying to clear his airway of this strange feeling, wonders if colic is catching. 

"You can go back to your experiment," John whispers, "I'll stay up so I get to her before she disturbs you again."

Sherlock shakes his head. He watches Violet's tiny arms move in her sleep suit for a moment, marvelling once again at the perfect motions taking place in such miniature. 

"I wasn't experimenting."

"Right, research." John is distracted, flicking through the pages of his book but not really focussing, his eyes keep jumping over the top, glancing at Violet and narrowing appraisingly. 

Sherlock shakes his head, "It's not important." His feet take half a step forward before he can stop himself, bringing him level with John's bed, he hesitates, unsure of what he had planned to do next. 

John looks up from his book, face wary and confused. 

"Do you want tea?" It is all Sherlock can think to say. It is something, anyway, a mechanism they have created to deal with these moments. Sherlock feels nothing much has changed, that John may be living here now but he is still the man that sat opposite him in silence while Violet finally drifted off. Sherlock doesn't know any more about how to deal with it now than he did then, only that he feels more failure for it these days, has given in to more sentiment than he had planned to. Especially where Violet is concerned. 

"You're really worried," John notes, "I thought..." He sighs and then drops the book down in his lap, fingers splayed over the closed cover, decisive, ready. "I thought it was inexperience, normal worry for an infant in your care. I thought it was a fear of distraction, that she would become tiresome, but you really care about her. You're really worried. About her health, not as a manipulation."

Sherlock frowns, his nose probably screws up, "Manipulation? How can you say that?"

"How am I to know?" He asks, "You've used a lot more for a lot less."

"Only ever to protect you," Sherlock insists, his feet shuffling on the carpet, flicking a thumb against the lip of the bedside table distractedly, "Never for my own ends. Not anything that mattered."

"Baskerville."

"Oh come on," Sherlock sighs, it is an age old argument, one he thought they had put behind them. "That was before..." He sucks in a breath, sinks to sit on the bed and John pulls his legs aside, "I have done plenty of things I am not proud of. More so while I was away than I care to discuss, but when it comes to you I have never put you in any danger I couldn't protect you from."

"Jesus Christ," John says, pitching the book down the bed and angling his body so that he is facing Sherlock, so close he can feel the heat from John's clavicle mirrored on his own. "When will you understand that I don't need protecting? For fucks sake Sherlock I shot a man for you the first night we met, I'd do a hell of a lot more now."

"I worked it out," Sherlock stammers, his breath catching in ways that he hates, "I worked it out so that I could come back. I did, eventually, I came back. I can tell you how, if it makes you feel better. If you just let me explain, you'll see..."

"I told you," John licks his lips and Sherlock finds it hard to concentrate on what he says next, "I don't want to know how. I know how you caught Mary, I know how that played in to your hands with Moriarty's network and I know I was a key player. But I still need to know why, Sherlock, why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you take me with you, we couldn't have avoided everything... all of this."

Sherlock studies him for a moment. The angle of his neck, the strain in his shoulders, tension in his abdomen where he is poised for a fight. Sherlock notices the clench of his hand on the bedspread, rippling tremors over his nerves as he wrestles down whatever emotion it is that screams for defense. 

"I wouldn't change any of it," Sherlock announces. 

John starts to wind up for an attack, Sherlock hears the intake of breath as he prepares his rebuttal but he holds a flat palm out, silencing him with a soft expression of please. 

"Jim Moriarty was a theat to you, to many people I care about and so I took care of it. Alone, yes, because that is the only way I knew that I could. I am eternally sorry that I did not take you with me but I didn't know that was an option." 

"Of course it was," John starts, "of course I--"

"Please," Sherlock whispers, reaching out to John's trembling hand and covering it with his own, stilling the rapid movement with his own restless energy. "Let me finish. When I came home and saw you with Mary I did everything I could to keep you happy. I knew she lied, I didn't know about what. I ignored it, John. Do you know how hard that was? To ignore the evidence in front of me for the sake of your happiness? But I did it, alone, because that was the only way I knew how. I would have included you, but knowing your fiance was lying to you and including you? That was not an option."

John opens his mouth to reply but Sherlock squeezes John's hand below his, feels the heat of their skin collect together and John silences. 

"You married her and things would have been fine. You could hve been happy. I stayed away until I couldn't any longer and please believe that this caused me more pain than it did you. When it all came out... I never wanted you to feel any of that. Not because you need protecting but because I cannot live if you don't, John Watson. John Watson Lives, so Sherlock Holmes Lives... not the other way around. It never has been."

Sherlock feels John's hand turn in his, doesn't dare look up and catch his eye but feels the rough slide of John's fingers as they fit between his own. There is the huffo f Violet's breathing where she has fallen asleep, it is still and quiet, a moment of calm that feels removed from everything. It is safe here, bathed in golden light, held in John's palm, Sherlock can tell the full story. 

"I included you, with Mary, with everything that came afterwards because I am selfish. I couldn't do it alone. Believe me if I could I would have done, because I would go anywhere, I would be tortured a thousand times, fake my death and leave London a million times if it meant you would be saved even the tiniest hurt."

He looks up then, to find John staring at him with an expression of disbelief. There is anger, and confusion, a tinge of something Sherlock has never seen before but mainly, there is that look again. That tightening of his mouth that Sherlock now knows is holding back a smile. 

"I wouln't change any of it," Sherlock whispers, "Because without any of that violet would not be here, you would not be here as you are now and I would not be here as I am now. Perhaps we would still be young men, without the care and worries we have picked up along the way. We would not be sitting vigil over a child and you would not look as worried as you do most days. I would not feel this dreaded sentiment that I do every time I hold her. But I wouldn't take it back, I wouldn't change damn thing, because despite what you think, John, we are family."

Sherlock doesn't know how to hold this moment now, just knows that he wants to. John's hand is in his own and the room feels charged with so much energy that he can't hold on to it. John opens his mouth to say something, the expression on his face yet another Sherlock does not know how to read. It is frustration, Sherlock knows, though at what, he couldn't say. He is challenging everything they have silently agreed to, they do not discuss this, they drink tea and kep quiet and yet here he is, baring his soul in this tiny moment.

John does suck in breath, does start to form syllables in his vocal chords but he never gets the chance to speak. Just as John's lips contort to form the first word, Violet wakes. 

Her tiny cries fill the room, puncturing the bubble of something they have created and Sherlock retracts his hand so quickly he can still feel the residual heat of John's skin on his as he pulls his fingers back towards his abdomen. 

"I'd better..."

"Yes."

And John is gone. Rising to scoop Violet in to his arms and rock her gently, murmuring those beautiful sounds of shush and calm. Sherlock indicates down the stairs goes to make that cup of tea. Because it is something, it is what they have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As those of you that follow me [on Tumblr](http://ah-hudders.tumblr.com) will know I've had a bad allergic reaction to some mosquito bites and been suffering with swollen hands. I therefore haven't been able to write as much as I would have liked. Still, they are getting better now. Here it is, anyway. Updates will probably slow down now as my holiday is coming to an end and I am going back to full-time work routine. I do intend to finish this though, no fear, it may just be once a week rather than every few days.


	7. A Hard Day's Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's been a hard day's night,_  
>  And I've been working like a dog...  
> ...But when I get home to you  
> I find the things that you do  
> make me feel alright  
> Hard Day's Night - The Beatles

Sherlock Holmes notices everything. Sometimes the data floods in without warning and he is assaulted with information from every angle. It takes a while to sort through it, to analyse and decipher what it is that needs to be done. John is much more reactionary. Acting with ease, but occasionally with too much caution. He always seemed to act appropriately without having to wind his way around explanations but sometimes, he needs a push in the right direction. 

“I’m not sure Sherlock.”

“And so you never will be. The only way to be sure is to try.”

John’s mouth is a tight line. He is feeding Violet, rocking her gently enough to sooth without disrupting the bottle nestled in her mouth. She is suckling softly, content and peaceful for the moment. 

“She’s been fussy again. I think it’s the colic.” 

“John.”

Sherlock crosses his arms. His dressing gown swims around him in a superior cloud, not quite the optimum swish of condescension his coat would have offered, but it would have to do. 

“I’m not being an idiot.” John insists, “It’s a legitimate concern.” 

“The colic was months ago. She’s teething I think. Five months is around the right age for it to start.” 

“I’m not sure where you have all of these baby facts stored away in that mind palace of yours, is there a nursery in there now?”

Sherlock pretends not to hear and steps away from the crib where the juvenile development books are stacked, right there next to the baby weighing scale that represents Violet’s growth data. His mind palace has always been a little cluttered, but the nursery is a downright mess, too much crammed in in too little a time.

“The point is I don’t think she’s ready for me to go.” 

“Is it my skills as a caregiver you are worried about?” 

“No.” John whispers, as though voicing it louder is admitting something, “You’re great with her. But I’m her father, I should be here, I should be able to…”

“Provide for her? Feed her? Clothe her? Put a roof over her head? Because a job will help with all of those things.” 

“Point taken. I just can’t shake the feeling that I should be able to do it all alone.” 

Sherlock nods once, conveying his understanding of that particular emotion all too well. “Alone doesn’t always protect people.” His own voice is a whisper now, like confession. 

John’s blue eyes flicker over Sherlock’s face before it seems almost painful. His lashes dip and he coos into Violet’s face for a moment. Sherlock picks up his tea and sips deeply, wondering if the symbolic nature of the beverage is beginning to show to John at all yet, or if it’s still just their shield of avoidance. 

“It’s part-time.” Sherlock settles on saying finally, “A few days a week with an option to do more if needs be. I have put cases on hold for the moment until we find a routine and Mrs Hudson has offered to help as much as she can.” 

“I know.” John sighs, pushes a breath out as though readying himself for something, bolstering himself, “It’s time, isn’t it?” 

“I think so.”

“You won’t have to give up cases for too long.” John insists, “I know your hours are ridiculous.”

“Everything about me is ridiculous,” Sherlock quips with a mischievous smile, “by design, I assure you.” 

“Why doesn’t that surprise me? Still, I mean it.” 

“I know. Cases will come and go. Mrs Hudson is here to take over, she did raise two sons you know.” 

“I didn’t, actually.” 

“Hmmm. One lost to crime, the other to war. Ironic that she should end up with us as tenants.” 

John’s brow creases momentarily, putting the pieces together, and then nods. “If I’m going to do this, I’d better go.” 

He has finished feeding Violet now and begins the delicate process of slipping her into Sherlock's arms. Their fingers connect for what feels like a solid minute when the exchange happens and although he wants to hold her, Sherlock wonders if they can keep Violet cradled in their joint embrace forever. The notion is intrusive and Sherlock kicks it under the crib, burying it out of sight. 

"Wish me luck."

"Make your own luck." Sherlock responds, flashing a rare smile that is becoming less rare by the day, "not that you need it, you are a good doctor."

There is that look again. John surveying Sherlock and Violet and holding back that smile, restraining it. Only this time it is something Sherlock said rather than just the image of him. 

John doesn't say any more, simply leans forward to kiss Violet's brow, glances up at Sherlock and the detective is half scared for a moment that John means to do the same to him. But he doesn't. Simply slaps that comradely hand to Sherlock's shoulder and goes off to face the day. 

\------

"I had forgotten."

Sherlock opens his eyes, flexes his fingers, pays attention. 

"I mean, I didn't forget." John corrects, "but I hadn't exactly been thinking about it, you know?"

"I do know. I always know."

"Oh." John stops as he comes through to the living room finally. "Sorry, I came in through the other... Were you asleep?"

"I was nothing of the kind."

Violet is snuggled up on his chest, her cheeks flushed but still and plump as she breathes. 

"Teething?" 

“As I suspected.” Sherlock huffs, his eyes gritty and slack. 

“Excuse me. Didn’t say you were wrong.”

“Sorry.” Sherlock sits, moving slowly so as to not disturb Violet who has finally fallen to sleep after an eventful day of crying. He tries not to take it personally that it is the first time he’s been alone with her properly, puts it down to the teething, understands that its natural for her to want her father and not him, reminds himself that he’s not her family. 

“You must be tired,” John jokes as Sherlock lays Violet in her crib, managing it without waking her.

“I apologise occasionally.” Sherlock says, standing straight and stretching out his back, muscles expanding, releasing. 

“Not when I’m around.”

Sherlock isn’t sure whether this is straying in to awkward territory so settles for not saying anything he might regret later. Instead, because it is what must be done, “tea?”

“I was thinking a beer actually.”

“That bad?”

“Not really,” John sighs moving to the kitchen, “like I said, I just forgot what it was like.” 

“Worse than you remembered?” 

“Much better.” John corrects, handing Sherlock an open bottle of beer though he hadn’t asked for it, and isn’t sure he’s ever shared a beer with John this casually in the house before. A warming whiskey, yes, and that once on his stag do, but it wasn’t a regular occurrence. 

He must take too long to respond because John continues talking like Sherlock hadn’t understood him. 

“It’s not that I don’t love her, because I do. More than… well, I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything more, don’t think I was capable, it’s like something was unlocked, you know? But today… being back at work…” 

“You are a doctor and a soldier.”

“And a father.”

“Yes. You love each of those things, and are good at each of those things. You deserve to have them all.” Sherlock frowns, “Not that I am suggesting going off to war.” 

“Of course not.” 

“There is always cases, I suppose. If you…” 

“Yes, well. There’s that. Maybe.” 

There is silence that stretches out. John sips diligently at his beer while Sherlock peels the label from the bottle in one neat strip. 

“It’s okay to want time away.” Sherlock says quietly, “I am here to help, when you need that.” 

“Thanks.” The muscles at the edge of John’s mouth twitch, he’s smiling but its restrained again, held back. “I really appreciate it Sherlock. It’s hard to… rely on you. Again.”

“I understand.” 

“I don’t think you do,” John says, “You left me. I’m mostly okay with the reason why now, I think I get it. Finally. What we would be willing to do to protect those we love. But it still… well, we’ve been over it.” 

Sherlock clears his throat, “In a small way John, you left me too.” 

The doctor’s eyes darken, brows drawing down into a frown. 

“When I returned… I was foolish. I wanted things to go back to the way that they were. I had seen and done and experienced things I never wish to talk of again and all I could think about was coming home to Baker Street, to my work, to London. To you.” 

“I had to move on Sherlock. I kept a tiny glimmer of hope for so long that it was slowly destroying me until I met... “ 

“I wouldn’t have denied you anything. It was wrong of me to expect that you would still be here when I got back. I am grateful for even the few months of happiness you had with Mary before I ruined that too, if not for that, Violet would not be here. It was idiotic, a foolish fancy, but it kept me going in times of hardship and pain. I wasn’t able to let it go as much as I would have liked. I don’t blame you for it but, it hurts.” 

“And you’re kind of mad at me, even though you understand why.” 

Sherlock dips his head for a second. 

“Then we’re in the same boat,” John agrees, “but we’ll get over it. Like you said, you’re my family.” 

Sherlock is enamoured with the sentiment, and yet he is sure John means a little differently than Sherlock had when he originally expressed the feeling. 

“Anyway,” John said, “I’m for bed. Another long day tomorrow.” 

“Goodnight John.”

“Goodnight Sherlock.”

\----

The part-time designation of John’s job does not last long. His three days turns to four and soon he is bouncing between the surgery and an A&E placement that he offered to help out with when he found out they were short of doctors. John’s eyes have the emergence of dark circles below them and the lines around his mouth are etched somewhat deeper of late but his eyes are bright and his expression is less tight than Sherlock has seen it since the memory stick. John is back, his doctor, his soldier, his best friend. The jovial bundle of happiness he had once known is blossoming from his cocoon and now they have Violet as their beautiful, wondrous catalyst. She is five months old, sitting unaided and gumming down food before they even have a chance to look up.

“I am shattered.” John says, returning home after a long shift. Sherlock is stood on the coffee table, planted amidst papers staring at a picture of a bloodied corpse. 

“Hmmm…” he rumbles as John ducks down in front of him to lay on the couch. 

“Seriously, leave me here, I may never move.”

“Quite.”

“Do you have a case? What is going on this ti…. What the hell is that a picture of?” 

“Body.” Sherlock answers, a line appearing between his brows. 

“Did you have those up before you put Violet to bed?” 

“Technically.”

“Oi,” John hisses, tugging on the edge of Sherlock’s dressing gown so that the detective wobbles on the table, “I’m talking to you, you monosyllabic prick.” 

“Sorry, sorry.” Sherlock steps down to sit on the couch, John barely has time to move his feet but Sherlock hardly notices. “I’m trying to solve this one from too much distance. It’s hard to get an accurate picture.” 

“So go investigate,” John shrugs, “question witnesses, terrify suspects. You know, the usual.”

Sherlock smiles faintly and wonders if John understands at all. He would, perhaps, if he didn’t look so tired. Without thinking, Sherlock reaches out to lay John’s feet back over his lap so that he can stretch out. John blinks at him and Sherlock considers that he has crossed one of those invisible social lines that prevents friends from engaging in certain practices. 

“So, technically?” John asks, when Sherlock doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t seem phased, Sherlock notes, so the detective shouldn’t feel bad when he drops his hand to the warmth of John’s ankle. He tries not to question his motivations, but there is something strange about John allowing him to touch him there, in an innocuous yet usually hidden piece of his skin. He is warm, inviting, and Sherlock can barely bring himself to pass it off as accidental, wants to know what John might do if he thought Sherlock’s hand had any ambitions of being elsewhere.

“How can those frankly horrifying pictures be technically on the wall when my innocent and impressionable daughter is in the room?” 

Sherlock grins and ducks the hand not currently on John Watson’s person to the side of the couch, draws up the rolled up paper. 

John takes it from him with a quizzical expression that breaks into laughter as he unrolls the poster. The cartoon alphabet reflecting rainbow colours in John’s pupils. 

“It is best to introduce language skills early.” Sherlock states blandly. 

“God Sherlock, you covered up photographs of a horrific murder scene with a poster of a multi-coloured alphabet made up of cartoon animals?” 

“Seemed like a logical solution.”

John laughs for a solid minute, the tension of the day dropping from him. As his body moves with mirth, the ankle under Sherlock’s palm jumps and he is delighted to feel the soft scrub of hair creating friction against his skin. 

When his laughter subsides, John has a serious look on his face. 

“You wouldn’t cover up your work for anyone,” John announces, “You leave it up when Mrs Hudson comes in, when clients come round, everything.” 

“Mrs hudson is not as innocent as she would have you believe John, I doubt anything she sees on our walls is much worse than things she has seen in real life courtesy of her late husband.”

“Not what I meant.” 

“No,” Sherlock admits, tapping a thumb against his lower lip, the one not currently pressed against the juncture of John’s ankle and sock cuff. “I suppose I don’t.”

“And you’re solving this from home, when you really need to be there.” 

“I’ll solve it just fine from here,” Sherlock protests, “And faster than Lestrade’s negligent excuse for investigators would have done.” 

“But it isn’t you.” John sits up, disrupting the contact between them and Sherlock retracts his hand sharply in case John notices what he’d been doing. “God, have I turned you into my house husband?” 

Sherlock halts, turns his head swiftly, “What are you talking about?” 

“I’ve swanned off back to work and you’re here taking care of the baby.”

Sherlock dips his brows, splays his fingers as if inspecting something tiny on his palm. “It is a logical solution.”

“But it isn’t.” John insists, scrubbing a hand down his face. Whatever stress-relieving effects his laughter had is not gone, John is wound up tight once again. 

“I don’t mind, John. I like taking care of her, I--” Sherlock exhales, caught on the words, “I love her John, I didn’t even think of missing out on the work. Not really. You were happier, tired yes, but happier. And I… She’s fascinating, she learns at least one new thing every day if not two, it’s incredible to watch her mind join up all the neurons it needs to make new connections, new data, its like a blank piece of paper being written on for the first time. And I’m getting to hold the pen occasionally, it’s amazing…” Sherlock stops, aware he is now gesticulating wilding, hands only inches from John’s face as the doctor leans towards him, dragged in by the force of Sherlock’s enthusiasm.

“You love her. I know, that much is obvious. But you love the work too. You are a detective and a scientist and an uncle. You love each of those things, and are good at each of those things. You deserve to have them all.”

Sherlock swears the lump in his throat is a tangible thing, he tries to swallow against it but finds he can’t. There is nothing much else he can do but try to clench his jaw down and stop the lump from emerging from his mouth in a tirade of unnecessary sentiment. 

“Go back to work.” John says, “I’ll be here.”

“Your job…” 

“Is tiring me out.” John admits, “It’s great to be back, and I’ll keep doing it, but if I continue at the pace I’m going with the extra shifts and the crazy hours I’ll burn out. It was nice, for a bit, after feeling like all I am is ‘Dad’ for so long, but the original few days is enough. We can make it work.” 

Sherlock smiles, because he know he can’t say much else. They could make it work, he thinks, possibly forever. With John as a doctor and Sherlock on cases. Violet would grow and learn and evolve into the beauty she was already becoming. They could fight and nag and butt heads but care and witness each other lives, could love, a bit. They could be a family. Sherlock smiles because he knows this will all come pouring out of his mouth if he tries to speak. 

He is relieved when John doesn’t not press him, just nods in that final way that he has that means they have reached a non-verbal decision. Sherlock knows he will go back to cases outside of the flat tomorrow, and John will cut back down on his hours but remain as happy as he has been. But for now, John smiles back and because he can speak, without fear of saying anything too inappropriate, he does what they always do. 

“Tea?”

\------

They trade days. John working half the week, Sherlock the rest of the time hopping from case to case, solving clues and analysing evidence with one hand on Violet and the other tugging at his hair. John works odd hours too, flitting between the surgery and his emergency room rotation with ease, routine and excitement, back and forth. They see each other in sleepy moments as Sherlock is coming in from a night chasing criminals and John is off to early morning rounds. Violet grows steadily, at six months she crawls for the first time and John is in a flurry of activity, baby proofing everything in sight. Sherlock’s experiments suffer somewhat and there are fights that emerge when he is perhaps less careful than he should be, but they muddle along.

They discuss renting 221C, turning it into a lab space and somewhere for Sherlock to run his consultancy from, but that brings up the faint whisper of permanence to the situation that Sherlock can tell John is not yet ready to discuss and so he makes tea, steers the discussion away and doesn’t bring it up again.

There are those quiet moments too. When she is sleeping and they find themselves at home. It is like a silent surrender into the night that the day has given itself up to the calm. Sometimes they sit in silence, or speaking of nothing much and at all, rising only to see to Violet when she stirs or make make tea, fetch beer, stretch their legs. 

They have found a sort of balance in their days, working and moving around each other. Coming home to each other, finally. 

She still keeps them up, wailing as only a child can with the force of tiny teeth pressing their way up through her gums. 

“I know, I know.” John is whispering to her as he bounces her in his arms, “the nasty things just have to come through though I’m afraid.”

“Is she in a lot of pain?” Sherlock asks, leaning on the doorframe in the dim light. He’d been out, flitting around London with all the thrill of the chase. He’d made bold moves and uncovered evidence everyone else in the room had missed and although it still gave him a flash of satisfaction when the suspect was apprehended, there is something about the silver of the luna glow coming in through John’s thin curtains and bathing the two of them in it’s soft light that fills Sherlock with more contentment that he has felt all day.

“I think she’s just overtired.” John suggests, “uncomfortable but it’s more that she’s worked herself up. We might be in for a long one.” 

“I can stay with her, if you need to sleep for tomorrow.” 

“I called for cover, I don’t think either of us are going anywhere.” He adjusts her tiny body to a better angle, rocks her again. “You need both of us right here, don’t you little lady?” John glances up, catching Sherlock’s eyes. “Sorry, I know you’ve been at work, do you mind? It’s easier… with you.”

Sherlock flushes with pride, that he is needed, by her, by John. 

“What can I do?” 

John does smile, a full smile, then catches himself. “Nothing, just stay. She likes you here and I could use the company. I’m so tired.” 

“Violin?”

“Good idea.” 

Sherlock fetches the instrument, tunes it as he bounds back up the stairs, and is pressing it to his chin as he steps back in the room. 

The song he plays is slow. A love song perhaps but he can’t remember the exact words to it. It’s something he heard once, a long time ago, he knows that it is French and that it meant a great deal to someone at some point, but he can’t remember who, or why he has chosen tonight to play it. 

Violet has a stubborn minute where she tries to ignore the soothing sounds of the song. She hiccups a few cries into John’s shoulder before her eyes begin to droop heavily and her head drops to the warmth of John’s jumper. There are a few pitiful squeaks left as she fights against sleep momentarily but all too soon, she has drifted off. 

“I think we’ve got a year tops until that stops working.” 

John puts her in the crib, while Sherlock ruminates on the possibility that they might still be living together in a year for them to test the theory. 

“In fact, we’ve probably got less than an hour. Might need to rest while we can.” 

John climbs on to his bed, shuffles down against the headboard and closes his eyes. Sherlock glances around himself for a moment before leaning forward to pull a cushion of the bed and drop it against the drawers where he can perch himself. 

“What are you doing?” John says without opening his eyes.

“Um, Resting?” Sherlock says, mid crouch. 

“On the floor?” 

Sherlock does not allow himself to consider any other possibility, squashes the thought that springs up in his mind uninvited. 

“Just get up here and don’t snore.” 

He hesitates, trapped between a burning desire and the voice in his brain telling him it is the worst idea possible. His thighs let out a twinge of protest at being crouched for so long and Sherlock tells himself that he is merely avoiding cramp when he stands and gingerly sinks down onto John Watson’s bed. 

John doesn’t seemed fazed. His eyes are actually closed, though he is propped up slightly. Sherlock settles next to him and tries not to breathe so that he won’t disturb him. It is all he can do to keep the tremor out of his hands. 

Idiotic. It isn’t as if this is the first time he has shared a bed, though it is the first time in a while and the only time he thinks it might be with someone he could stand for more than a half hour. Violet snuffles in her crib and Sherlock glances over at her. She is quiet for the moment, they are floating on an island of reprieve. Without quite meaning to, in the warmth and comfort of the evening, Sherlock closes his eyes. 

He barely notices when John pulls the blanket from the bottom of the bed up over them, and isn’t awake when John finally gives in to the night’s call to slumber himself. Violet rests, the violin working its magic once again so that in this singular moment, both ragged yet satisfied from work, they can rest. Each of them is calmed as they are surrounded by the two people they care about most in the whole world, so that all three, finding solace in the nearness of each other, sleep the whole night through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh I'm so sorry it's been so long. Real life has gotten in the way with my new job and now I'm up for promotion and I might be moving house and... well, all sorts.
> 
> I can't say there will be a definite schedule for this, just that I do have it all mapped out and I will be writing it, but I don't want to make you promises I can't keep as you've all been so amazing about this story. Just rest assured that I will get it done. Eventually.


	8. Unstoppable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Keep on believing, don’t give in_  
>  It’ll come and make you whole again  
> It always will, it always does  
> Unstoppable - Rascal Flatts

Fear is a survival instinct. Sherlock knows survival instincts well, has needed them on too many occasions, so he knows fear is sometimes inevitable, can even be useful. Because of this, he’s only mildly perplexed that the sensation of John Watson’s back pressed solidly up against his should scare him the way it does. John is there, firm and real and touching him. There are only a few other examples of them touching he can think of before Violet, a brush of hands passing over a mobile phone, a sleeve clutched between thumb and fingertip, a handshake on the tarmac, a hug… That last one had perhaps been the only time before he’d felt this fear. That he had John, and was slowly losing it all, would lose it, if he couldn’t pull himself together. 

John sighs in his sleep and Sherlock feels the shift of him, the warmth spreading over his back as John’s connects from shoulder blade to shoulder blade down through his spine and curving into his lumbar. It is a testament to Sherlock’s fear, the fact that he is paralysed at John’s touch, and to how dazed he is to have found himself in this situation that it takes him longer than it usually would to realise John’s breathing has changed from the relaxed rhythm of someone sleeping to more alert. Yet John doesn’t move, simply shifts slightly so that he is pressed again Sherlock more tightly. 

Sherlock wishes he had the capacity to stay quiet, to just revel in the fact that a fully awake John Watson has pressed against him from shoulder to hip, but the fear gets the better of him, fight or flight kicking in too soon and soon he is rolling away, flopping on to his back. 

“Morning John.” he says, because he can, because he is capable of that much. 

“Morning Sherlock.” 

It is not goodnight, not goodbye, Sherlock isn’t sure what comes next. Tea, perhaps, but then he would have to leave, and he’s not quite ready for that yet. 

“I did not mean to stay,” he explains, instead, because if John knows he didn’t mean to intrude here, put himself where he wasn’t wanted, then he might forgive him the indulgence of touching.

“Sherlock Holmes is human and actually sleeps, alert the media.” John quips with a grin. He shifts too so they are lying side by side. Sherlock’s arm is straight against his side and John’s is but an inch away, he can feel the sleep-warmth of his skin crossing the gap, weaving its way around his wrist and pulling so that he could almost reach out and--

“I slept.” Sherlock said, “As did you. Straight through, I might add.” 

“So?” 

“I merely note that it has been some time, for one reason or another.” 

“Violet, you mean?” 

Sherlock waves a hand, “amongst other things.” 

John’s mouth becomes a line. Perhaps referencing John’s returned nightmares is not the best start to the day. 

“It--”

Sherlock feels John shift as he cuts off his sentence. He daren’t look across to see if John is leaving, somehow it leaves a sad taste in his mouth to know that he’s losing this little moment of warmth. But the blanket wafts upwards, coming to settle at a different angle as it lays across John who has turned on his side, facing Sherlock. 

“It was weird,” John admits, “Well, it should have been weird. That’s what was weird. It should have been strange, having you here.” 

“It wasn’t?” Sherlock notes that there is a crack in John’s ceiling, two inches from the light fitting, about an inch and a half in length, nothing to worry about but he’l have to keep an eye out. 

“Not really.” John laughs softly, the breath huffing across Sherlock’s arm, raising goosebumps. “You invade everywhere else, I suppose it was only a matter of time before you were invading my bed too.” 

John frowns slightly.

“That sounded… Never mind.”

“Sounded what?” Sherlock asks, flipping over to face John, all of a sudden aware that his mouth is so close Sherlock could reach out and… 

“It sounded like something people would talk about.” 

Sherlock smiled softly, can hardly help the expression that crosses his face, doesn’t catch it in time before it might give him away. 

“Our whole life is something to talk about now,” John elaborates, “So I suppose they can go on saying whatever the hell they like. I’m done listening.” 

“As I’ve always said, caring isn’t an advantage.” 

“In some ways it is,” John tips his head in Violet’s direction, bringing himself closer to Sherlock. 

“Yes, in some ways.” 

There is a beat of silence and Sherlock is sure the crack in the ceiling has damaged the lighting, the electrical circuits, it’s the only reason why the room should be humming with this much energy at the moment. The only reason his brain has become an electromagnet, pulling him forward, towards John. 

Sherlock has felt the touch of lips against his before. Has even initiated it on occasion, as a means to an end. Usually a case, for drugs in the past, the occasional naive experiment with personal relationships when he was younger, but he’s never felt the desire to before. In theory, it’s a ridiculous notion, serving no evolutionary purpose. He’s able to understand homosexuality, there are many species on the planet who indulge in the practice so it’s not that John is male that’s throwing him, if anything, that is probably his preference. It’s just that pressing one’s lips to someone else’s lips is ludicrous, should be considered redundant, and yet it is that precise thing he cannot get out of his head. John isn’t moving away, Sherlock could lean forward and do it, could throw caution to the wind and just see, find out what would happen if he did. 

He’s not sure if it would be the worst idea, or the best. But he is pretty sure he wants the fear to return, to make his fight or flight system kick in so he can have something compel him to move away and not make this vast error of judgment. He’s almost made up his mind enough to lean forward and close that gap when the whole room seems to erupt. 

Violet wakes suddenly, or perhaps she has been awake and waiting for them to notice and has given up being patient. Either way, she is suddenly crying and John is on his feet and their moment is saved having to be ruined by Sherlock’s poor impulse control. 

At the same moment, Sherlock’s mobile phone buzzes on the bedside table, it’s plugged in so John must have gotten up and plugged it in before going to sleep. The thought touches Sherlock so much that he doesn’t put much thought into the fact that John made it easier for Sherlock to sleep in his bed. 

“Yes?” Sherlock says answering the phone, Violet’s cries in the background making it hard for him to hear the reply. “Hang on,” he says indicating to John that he’s going to step outside, John looks apologetic. “Right,” he clears once he’s in the hall, “Hello.”

“Sherlock.” Lestrade’s voice sounds terse, he has not had the peaceful night of rest Sherlock has. “I need you to come and take a look at something.” 

“If this is about the Lockwood murder Lestrade, I already gave you the solution to that problem a week ago, if you’d just look into the gardener’s gambling habits--”

“Sherlock.” Lestrade interrupts, “This is… Well, I don’t even know why I’m saying this, I know you’re going to tell me it’s impossible. But... I’ve exhausted all the other options. It’s Moriarty. He really is back.”

\------

 

Sherlock arrives at the scene fourty five minutes later. 

"It's not Moriarty."

"You don't know that Sherlock," Lestrade says meeting him at the door in a blue zip-up body protector. 

The scene must be bloody, Sherlock thinks, Lestrade does not usually stand on so much ceremony. The hair cut, the shine of a freshly shaven jaw. The DI is tired, but he stopped to shave mid-way through the day and kept his hair appointment. 

"I know it. Just like I know you have a date later."

"Sherlock," the DI warns, "don't start."

"Start? I'm not starting anything. I'm simply stating a fact." 

"You're always starting something." The DI moves aside and they both enter the house. It's old, damp, freezing. It makes Sherlock miss the warmth of the bed that morning. The warmth of John. "How's John?"

"Fine." He's defensive, like he has something to hide. Sherlock doesn't think the DI has it in him to notice. 

"What did you do?"

He does notice, but he gets it wrong as usual. 

"I haven't done anything," Sherlock protests as they pause at the entrance to the living room, "John it perfectly fine, Violet is fine, everyone is fine. There have been no maladies or calamities in the past few days of any note. Violet has some colic but slept through so we have every hope that she is on the mend. What, why are you looking at me like that?"

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were the new parent, not John."

"She occupies my space, I'm bound to notice her."

They pause as Lestrade gives him one of those looks that is suppose to signal that he knows more than Sherlock. It rarely means that but Greg seems to get a weird satisfaction from it so Sherlock lets it go. 

 

Once his face settles, Lestrade looks worried again. "Look, Sherlock, I know you don't think it's Moriarty but... Whether it is or not, what has happened in there is definitely meant to get to you. I probably shouldn't even be letting you in there, but to be honest, I have no delusions that I'd be able to keep you distanced from it once it gets out so I'm including you from the beginning. But Sherlock," he puts a firm hand on Sherlock's arm to stop him moving towards the door handle, to make him look directly into Lestrade's face. "You follow my lead on this, Moriarty or no, you can't go off on your own."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and hopes that gets the message across. 

"Sherlock!" Lestrade warns, "I mean it."

"Yes, yes okay. Can we go in now? You did want my help did you not?"

Lestrade does not say anything. His face looks grave and Sherlock wonders if it really is so serious this time. 

As the door swings open Sherlock has a few seconds to wonder if he is prepared, admonish himself for the silly behaviour, and pass it off as insipid fancy he must have picked up from John. The whole process takes the 2 seconds needed for the door to open fully. Sherlock has never been so wrong, so quickly. 

They are laid out in display, arms outstretched, their hands barely touching right at the fingertips. The bodies are white, drained, it seems, of all blood. They are shirtless, stark against the deep crimson carpet. 

Sherlock scans the room, notices the red writing on the wall, the taunting message addressed to himself, but cannot drag his eyes away from the bodies for too long. The torsos are marked over the heart, a dark smudge Sherlock cannot identify from this distance. He takes a step forward but Lestrade flings a hand out to grasp at his arm. 

"Watch your shoes."

Sherlock glances down. The carpet he is stood on is cream, a soft oatmeal that reminds him of John's jumpers in a way it probably shouldn't. He'd been about to step over the threshold between cream carpet and what he'd thought was a deep red area rug. This, he realises, was an error. 

He notices now, the slight sheen of wet, a varying in texture across the area where the blood has started to congeal. The room is filled with the metallic scent of it, making Sherlock wonder how he ever missed it. 

There is something wrong with his brain, something lacking, he should have been able to spot the exsanguination as obvious as it is. Even as he realises, he cannot stay to study how long it might have been there, cannot clear through the data of the blood because his attention is drawn, once again, to the bodies in the centre of the room. 

The furniture has all been cleared, moved to the perimeter of the room to make space for these two bodies. Two men, one brunette one blond, tall and short, muscular and lean, pale and tan, detective and army doctor, Sherlock and John. It isn't of course. Sherlock is standing right there and John is safely at Baker Street, but the bodies have been chosen well. 

"What is the...?" Sherlock's hand flutters over his own chest, hovers over the spot on his body that has been marked by proxy on the corpse before him. 

"Jigsaw pieces. Two on each body." 

"Two?" 

Lestrade nods as he passes Sherlock some light blue elasticated covers for his shoes. Doctors wear these, he notes, in surgery, in delivery rooms. The nurse who had handed Violet to John had been wearing them, the surgeon who pulled the bullet from his shoulder, from Sherlock's abdomen, every time a body is opened they are worn to tiptoe around the damage caused. Sherlock takes them without a fuss. 

When he is nearer to the bodies he can finally see the second piece on each. Two jigsaw pieces on each man, over the heart, side by side. One is open, the skin absent from the wound. The other, covered with the corresponding piece from the neighbouring body. 

"So which part are you supposed to solve?" Lestrade pipes up. 

"The missing piece of course," Sherlock hums, "The covered piece is fairly self explanatory but the hole without a piece..."

"You think he wants you to find it? Like he's hidden it somewhere?"

"No, I don't think that is what the killer means." 

Sherlock straightens up, stows the magnifying glass he'd been using to examine the wound in his pocket and steps back again. The give of wet carpet beneath his shoes is unnerving.

"Is it in their blood?" 

"It's been sent off to the lab. We've pretty much finished processing the scene but what with the content of the message, well, I had to get you in." 

"Hmmm."

"You really don't think it's Moriarty?"

"It's theatrical enough, l'Il grant you." Sherlock concedes. 

"But the message... he's left you them before."

"Moriarty scrawled my name over a jail cell, and in a very public display at the Tower of London. Anybody following the case would have access to that information. The fact that my name is on a wall in blood doesn't mean anything."

"But, 'Can you solve the puzzle, Sherlock?' that's very Moriarty isn't it?" 

"You refer, of course, to the bombings." Sherlock says, whipping around and pulling himself from his examination of the bloody message on the wall. 

"He asked you to solve puzzles then," the DI insists, "wanted you to prove you were clever."

"And I did." Sherlock shrugs, striding from the room, Lestrade on his heels "There would be no need to repeat himself."

"Sherlock wait, please." Lestrade stops him as he reaches the front door, crowds him up against the wood. 

Though Sherlock adopts his usual uneffectedness, his heart is hammering. Not because he fears Moriarty is back, but because whoever it is that has done this has clearly staged it to look like John. He has to get back to Baker Street, has to be near John and know that he is safe. There is no immediate danger, based on the staging and the message, he has some time before the next move, but Sherlock cannot quiet the desperate urge he has to be near the people he calls family. 

"What makes you so sure that it's not him?"

"Moriarty is dead, inspector, I saw him up close and personal with my own eyes. He couldn't have fooled me even at five times the distance. The broadcasted message in January was the result of my brother's perfectly excecuted plan to trap Moriarty's right-hand-man. Or in this case, woman. Guns for hire are rare, Greg. Moriarty had three. The first two, who aimed guns at you and Mrs Hudson, suffered terrible accidents on the continent during my absence. My whereabouts during which, can be verified as being elsewhere. The third, I had a direct hand in capturing and would have had the joy of seeing behind bars. However, due to complications in child birth leading to her death, I settled for raising her daughter instead."

Lestrade's mouth is parted slightly, in shock at the force of Sherlock's conviction. 

"Since assassins are in such short supply, and Moriarty's operation lost it's only known three, I doubt there is one left behind to perpetrate this atrocity. However, if you want to go down that line of enquiry, feel free. It will keep you out of my way."

"Then who is it? Who would go to such lengths?" 

"That," Sherlock says, "is exactly what I'm going to find out." 

"I suppose you're going? Off to be mysterious and work alone?" 

"Actually..." And at this point Sherlock finds himself looking at his shoes, "I was wondering if I could come to the precinct, get a copy of the case file. Crime scene photos that kind of thing."

"Don't you usually just get that stuff from the server when you get home?" 

Sherlock nods, "I do."

"Well then call me cynical, but i can't help thinking there is an alterior motive to you wanting the file through the proper channels."

"Only that I can get it before I go home." 

"John suddenly against you hacking our database?" 

Sherlock grins, "John Watson wouldn't have a clue whether I was hacking a database or Googling casserole recipes. He's useless when it comes to computers, anything beyond his blog site is a little beyond him."

"Then..."

"If I go home, it will take time being there before I have the documents handy. There will be a delay in being able to... explain things."

"My god," Lestrade says, "Are you sure that's wise?"

Thees is a moment's silence where the two men regard each other. Lestrade won't back down from his assessment of the situation so Sherlock responds the only way he knows how. 

"You have a date later. Your hair cut and fresh shave tell me that, the particular brand of aftershave you are wearing, not your usual but given as a gift at Christmas from a certain pathologist tells me who the lucky woman might be."

"Your point, Sherlock?"

"The date stems from an attachment, a familiarity which has grown into something more. you'e been persuing it for quite some time with little success and yet here you are with a scheduled date."

"She... Well, you know how the thing with Tom worked out. Suffered 'a terrible accident' abroad. Turns out she is only interested in pschopaths."

"Sociopaths." Sherlock corrects with a smirk, "But yes. You wanted to change it, the pattern of behaviour she had become used to." 

"Well, yes. If I can."

"Exactly."

Lestrade lifts a hand and scratches the back of his thumbnail to his temple. "I don't understand." 

Sherlock sighs. "I too wish to improve the pattern of behaviour. With the case file."

It is a small relief to Sherlock, and further cements his regard for Lestrade as the only competent member of New Scotland Yard that a look of realisation dawns on his face at that moment, saving Sherlock from having to explain further. 

"Well, far be it for me to stand in the way of progress. Jump in the car, we can get you a file made up at the office. Photographs and data analysis should already be in the system. We'll be waiting for the DNA results of course, but I can send that along after."

Sherlock nods in thanks and follows the DI to his car. He is so consumed with the thoughts whirling around in his head that he doesn't even notice when he's setlled comfortably into the passenger seat of a marked police vehicle. 

Sherlock Holmes needs his surival instincts. Needs them to cause accidents from a distance, to face this case head-on while being so afraid that something may happen to John. It scares him more than he will care to admit, even to himself, and he begins to wonder when exactly John Watson became essential. but of course, he already knows the answer to that. 

Maybe John Watson is his only survival technique, the only reason he keeps coming back from the dead. With that, Sherlock stows his fear away, tucks it way down deep and conjures the only thing he needs to survie. He does this so he can focus on the task at hand: solving a murder, saving a life.

**Author's Note:**

> The best place for updates on this fic (Spoiler free) is My Tumblr.


End file.
